


Winds of Change

by Lady_Aran



Series: Love is a Battlefield [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Arranged Marriage, BAMF Brienne, BAMF Jaime Lannister, Brienne is Awkward, Brienne's adorable chin wobbles, Canon Elements, Canon-Typical Violence, Cover Art, Digital Art, Drama, Dysfunctional Family, F/M, Family Drama, Fanart, Friends to Lovers, Friendship/Love, Gen, Heavy Angst, I Will Go Down With This Ship, Idiots in Love, Implied Past Cersei Lannister/Jaime Lannister, Implied/Referenced Incest, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Jaime Lannister has blue eyes like Nikolaj Coster-Waldau, My First Work in This Fandom, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Protective Jaime, Romance, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, Tags May Change, The Author Regrets Nothing, The Bang That was Promised, Tyrion Ships Braime, Tywin Lannister's A+ Parenting, Tywin Lannister's Verbal Bitchslaps, Unplanned Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-22
Updated: 2018-12-13
Packaged: 2019-07-01 00:19:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 63,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15762726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_Aran/pseuds/Lady_Aran
Summary: For his entire life, Jaime Lannister has only known the comfort of one woman, his twin sister, Cersei. Surely, if they came into the world together, they would leave it together. Or so he'd been foolish to assume.When Brienne of Tarth, that great beast of a woman, comes headlong into his life, the Kingslayer's life is forever changed. For better or worse.





	1. Harrenhal I

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WeirdDaydreamingFangirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WeirdDaydreamingFangirl/gifts), [sea_spirit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sea_spirit/gifts), [Julieoftarth (Wherethereissmoak)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wherethereissmoak/gifts), [ikkiM](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ikkiM/gifts), [Jaime x Brienne Online](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Jaime+x+Brienne+Online).



> (Since this story will now become a series, I've changed the title to Winds of Change, and the series itself to Love is a Battlefield. Still the same fic, just with a new title!)
> 
> Hello, my lovelies! I've been on hiatus dealing with personal stuff, and in that time I've watched the entire Game of Thrones series (thus far) and become a rabid Jaime x Brienne shipper, for which I make no apologies! As a result, I've been reading quite a few wonderful Braime fics and suddenly became inspired to try my hand at writing my own. So to those wonderful authors, thank you for your inspiration! 
> 
> As always comments and kudos are welcomed and appreciated! Enjoy!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't mind me my lovelies, just putting a bit of polish on the story. Nothing that would end up changing the story itself, mind you. Just a bit of clean up.

 

The Maid of Tarth sits submerged in one of three large, carved stone baths within the walls of Harrenhal. The water, _thank the Seven_ she muses, sits just below her collar bones and obscures her meager bosom, steaming and rousing a sigh of relief from her as the warmth seeps deep into her tired body. Only the gods knew what it had taken for Brienne of Tarth and the Kingslayer to get this far in their quest to return the latter to his family in King's Landing. And only the gods, the Kingslayer, and Brienne, knew of the prices that had been paid in getting here. Instead of recounting the horrific events of the past few weeks, however, Brienne returns her focus to the present, methodically scrubbing her muscled arms of weeks worth of blood, sweat, and grime until her usually pale skin is red and raw.

  
“Don't rub so hard, You'll scrub the skin off,” a male voice calls suddenly from the other side of the bathhouse in jest.

  
Brienne looks up from her task, a pit suddenly forming in her stomach. The Kingslayer, Jaime Lannister if she remembered correctly, barely ambulatory due to severe exhaustion, fever and undernourishment, still dressed in the same ragged, soiled tunics he's worn for the past year. But he isn't alone, Brienne notices. Qyburn is within arms length, lest the malaise-riddled Lannister succumb to his plethora of misfortunes.

  
“Help me with these rags,” he instructs, and Qyburn begins helping Jaime out of his ragged clothes. Brienne watches from her periphery briefly, dividing her attention between her bathing and a now shirtless Jaime. The Kingslayer, she can't help but notice, is chiseled in form. That despite the numerous bruises and scars, he looks more god than Stranger underneath the soft light of the sconces scattered about the room... She feels herself flush in response, her pale blonde head suddenly swimming... And something else, something far more palpable and terrifying to her: a carnal twitch betwixt her strong legs as if in an attempt to remind her, – mock her -- that beneath the solemn oaths, man's mail, and outward masculinity, Brienne of Tarth is still very much a woman underneath it all.

  
“There's another tub,” Brienne suggests just as she watches Jaime slip out of his soiled breeches. The sight of him, now as naked as his nameday, only deepens the crimson hue on her cheeks and neck, and the pulse of her womanhood. She scurries into the far corner of the tub, drawing her long legs tight against her chest, praying to the Seven that the Kingslayer be far too weak to quip about her sudden flushed appearance.

  
“This one suits me just fine,” Jaime replies nonchalant, holding himself with his left hand as he carefully lowers himself into the tub. He sighs with some semblance of comfort as the warmth of the water seeps into his tired body, his muscles aching and thickly knotted like the roots of a tree. It's the first real comfort he's felt in over a year.

  
_Thank the Seven_ , Brienne tells herself as she watches the Kingslayer, _he has yet to notice the crimson on my face_. Until he does, of course, blue eyes locking on to hers on the far side of the bath. Brienne steels herself for the inevitable jest to come from his mouth; she knows he knows her face, usually the color of alabaster, is currently the color of a beet. Yet he doesn't know _why_ , and for this, Brienne is grateful. The ragged lion does, however, know why the maid sits in a ball in the corner, and in some strange way, by the Gods, he finds it just a bit endearing. “Do not be so modest, wench. Are we both not adults here?”

  
Brienne shrugs her broad shoulders. “I suppose.” She glowers at him then, her rebuke firm. "And I am not 'wench'. I am Brienne of Tarth. You'd do best to remember that."

  
"If we're to play that game then, I am not merely 'Kingslayer'. I am Ser Jaime Lannister," he counters. "And for what it's worth, I do not care what you look like. Not interested.” Jaime tells her in an attempt to get the self-conscious woman to lower her guard a bit. Eventually, Brienne relents and uncurls herself before continuing to wash herself, both her embarrassment and her arousal gone like words on wind. Jaime tilts his head back, making sure to keep his bandaged stump above the water. “If I faint, pull me out. I don't intend to be the first Lannister to die in a bathtub.” he advises her, weary from the excruciating pain radiating from his stump and the fever coursing through his body.

  
Brienne regards him coldly. “Why should I care how you die?”

  
Jaime, his eyes half closed, is quick to remind the warrior maiden of her prior commitments. “You swore a solemn vow, remember? You're supposed to get me to King's Landing in one piece.” Even while in blistering pain, he can't help but mock the Maid of Tarth, “...Not going so well, is it?” he chastises while nodding towards his stump.

  
Brienne erupts, shooting to her full height, her pale brows furrowed with contempt. Silence shrouds the bathhouse as the pair hold each other in their respective gazes. Jaime, however, is too taken aback by the sight before him to say anything more – Brienne, her body naked, slick, and scarred, built with hard strength...and yet, an undeniable softness about it, a femininity he believed only his sister possessed. Her mound is covered by a crown of thick blonde curls, beads of water dripping from the tips. Jaime is soon horrified as he feels a familiar heat starting to pool in his belly – a heat shared only with Cersei – and a rousing twinge from his manhood. It was almost as if the cursed thing was trying to tell him something about himself he had been all but certain would never come to pass in his lifetime:

  
There was another woman. He was reacting to another woman – an unconventional woman, to be quite certain, but another woman nevertheless.

  
What's more, she was everything Cersei wasn't – A warrior born of honor, duty, and vigilance. And though she bends, she does not break, her courage steadfast and true. _Like a lion_ , Jaime notes to himself, still gawking at the maiden's form. Brienne had showed him nothing to suggest otherwise during their travels together.

  
“...That was unworthy. Forgive me,” he utters eventually, apologetic. “You've protected me better than most--”

  
Brienne bristles at this, her jaw tensing. “Don't you mock me.”

  
Jaime doesn't break eye contact with her. “I'm not. I'm apologizing. I'm sick of fighting,” he pleads. “Let's call a truce.”

  
Yet Brienne still stands, defiance written all over her handsome face. “You need trust to have a truce.” she spits.

  
Jaime regards her almost tenderly. “...I trust you.” _By the gods, I do not know why, but I do. More than I've ever trusted anyone..._

  
Brienne settles into the water once more, now adjacent to Jaime instead of huddled in the corner. Jaime notices immediately the look of contempt and unease on her face, as if she can't believe she's just allowed the infamous Kingslayer past the oft impenetrable walls she's built around herself. “There it is. There's the Look,” Jaime observes. “I've seen it for the past seventeen years on face after face. You all despise me: Kingslayer. Oathbreaker. Man Without Honor.”

  
“It is not that,” Brienne corrects, but stops herself from elaborating any further.

  
“You've heard of wildfire?” Jaime asks suddenly.

  
Brienne's look softens a tad. “Of course. What about it?”

  
Jaime is delirious from pain, fever and exhaustion, yet he cannot doubt the connection he feels to the woman in front of him, having been through so much with her already throughout the course of their journey, and so the words start to pour from his mouth, unadulterated and sincere. “The Mad King was obsessed with it. He loved to watch people burn; loved the way their skin blackened and blistered and melted off their bones.”

  
Brienne's features sour slightly at the mental image Jaime has just painted.

  
“He burned Lords he didn't like; Hands who disobeyed him; anyone who was against him, for that matter. Before long, half the country was against him...” Jaime draws a painful breath, his ribs expanding beneath large purple bruises. “Aerys saw traitors everywhere. So he had his pyromancer place caches of wildfire all over the city: beneath the Sept of Baelor and the slums of Flea Bottom; under houses, stables, taverns. Even beneath the Red Keep itself. Eventually, the day of reckoning came.”

  
Brienne feels an ominous chill trickle down her spine in spite of the warmth of the bath.

  
“Robert Baratheon marched on the capital after his victory at the Trident. But my father arrived first with the entire Lannister army at his back, promising to defend the city against the rebels. But I knew my father better than that,” Jaime concedes. “He's never been one to pick the losing side. I told the Mad King as much. I urged him to surrender peacefully. But the King didn't listen to me. Nor did he listen to Varys who tried to warn him...” Jaime's expression suddenly sours, his voice dripping with venom, “But he did listen to Grand Maester Pycelle, that gray sunken cunt. _'You can trust the Lannisters,'_ he said. _'The Lannisters have always been true friends of the Crown.'_ So we opened the gates and my father sacked the city. Once again, I came to the King, begging him to surrender. He told me to...,” Jaime looks as if he is in sheer pain, having unearthed the cursed tomb he'd worked so hard to bury over the last seventeen years, yet he knows he must tell somebody, finally, the truth no matter how much it grieves him. “bring him my father's head. Then, he turned to his pyromancer – _'Burn them all,'_ he said. _'Burn them in their homes. Burn them in their beds.'_ ”

  
Suddenly, Jaime looks upon Brienne, his blue eyes smoldering and features dark. “Tell me, Lady Brienne, if your _precious_ Renly commanded you to kill your own father and stand by while thousands of men, women, and children burned alive, would you have done it? _Would you have kept your oath then?!_ ”

  
Brienne's throat bobs as she swallows, unable to speak.

  
Jaime takes the opportunity to continue, spurred on by the great weight lifting from his shoulders. “First, I killed the pyromancer. And then, when the King turned to flee I drove my sword into his back. _'Burn them all,'_ he kept saying. _'Burn them all.'_ ” He can feel his consciousness starting to fade, his vision growing dark and tunneled, yet knows he cannot stop now. “I don't think he expected to die. He – he meant to burn with the rest of us and rise again, reborn as a dragon to turn his enemies to ash; I slit his throat to make sure that didn't happen. After it was done, I collapsed upon the Iron Throne. That's where Ned Stark found me.”

  
Brienne attempts to break the thick silence in spite of her shock. “...If this is true...why didn't you tell anyone? Why didn't you inform Lord Stark?”

  
Jaime's voice turns into a contemptuous growl, low and deep in his throat. “ _Stark?_ You think the _honorable_ Ned Stark wanted to hear my side? He judged me guilty the moment he set eyes upon me. By what right does the Wolf judge the Lion?!” he roars, repeating himself, _“By what right?!”_ Overcome by extreme pain, sickness and exhaustion, Jaime's attempt at standing fails -- Brienne rushes to her feet, her long arms open wide and ready to receive the Kingslayer before he has a chance to sputter in the water, and holds him close against her bosom.

  
“Help! Qyburn! The Kingslayer!” she yells, watching the light slowly fade from Jaime's eyes and the color drain from his face.

  
Jaime's head falls back, his usually strong neck muscles limp and wrought with fever. “Jaime,” he gasps to her, feeling relief in spite of himself. “My name is Jaime.”

  
His vision soon fades to black.

 


	2. In Her Eyes (Jaime)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime has a strange dream. Brienne and Jaime meet with Roose Bolton, resulting in Jaime being forced to come to grips with truths both bittersweet and terrifying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who commented on the 1st chapter and sent kudos. I hope you will continue to enjoy the story as it goes forward. Without further delay, here's chapter 2!

_He's surrounded by darkness. It's hot, dry, and black as ink. His heart beats with a sickening thud against his chest as strong legs pump and strain to keep him running through the same cave he's been attempting to traverse for hours, days, months – he's not sure. But truth be told, Jaime Lannister isn't sure about anything, anymore. Everything he was, or would ever be, had been cruelly taken from him within the blink of an eye. Overhead, he hears the faint voices of his sister and father mocking him over the loss of his worth to them – his sword hand; he_ _ was _ _that hand, without equal in all of Westeros. And now he is nothing more than a shell of his former self, a fierce lion no more. Jaime falls to his knees in agony, exhausted, and glares vehemently at his stump, knowing it is surely a cruel trick the gods have played upon him as a form of atonement for his past sins – Oathbreaking, King and Kin slaying, incest, the attempted murder of the Stark boy... And he positively loathes them all for it._

  
_Over the mocking voices of his father and sister, however, comes another voice, defiant:_ “A lion still has claws. Use them and fight. Live, to take revenge.”

  
_Brienne...?_ _Jaime wonders, inhaling the hot breath of the cave whilst frantically trying to trace the source._ “Brienne? Lady Brienne?!” _he roars, frustrated at the lack of light around him. If only he could see her face..._

  
_Two blue wisps meet his gaze then. Blue eyes, piercing eyes, cutting a swath through the thick darkness and lighting Jaime's way forward. Brienne appears before him, wraith-like and as bare as her nameday save for the ornate wrap around her waist... Red and gold, rose and azure, and emblazoned with an amalgamated sigil of Houses Lannister and Tarth... Jaime attempts to reach for her, yet she is too far away. He breaks out into a run once more, calling her name –_ “ _ Brienne! Brienne!”  _ __–_ _ _even as his lungs start to burn from the sheer heat of the cave, his body and mind beginning to sputter from exhaustion. Jaime tries to reach out for her again, this time to keep himself standing, for she is the sole reason why he's still able. Her words echo throughout the cave and in his mind, repeating until they become a mantra beating in time with his heart:_ _ A lion still has claws... A lion still has claws... A lion still has claws... _

  
_Jaime watches as the Brienne-wraith turns to look at him once more, and collapses to his knees._ “The lion must survive in order to fight against the coming strife within his pride...and the trials to come,” _she alludes to him with a hint of foreboding._ “And when that day comes, I will be your champion, Ser Jaime. I swear it by the Old Gods and the New...”

 

* * *

 

A new morning. The air smells damp and slightly ominous. The night had been stormy, with rain coming down in torrents, the winds biting and fierce. Yet the danger outside the ruined walls of Harrenhal paled in comparison to the lingering threats within her walls. Brienne had tempted certain death by keeping watch over Jaime Lannister as both the storm outside, and the storm inside his body raged overnight and into the wee hours of the morning. When his fever spiked, his body shivering and skin clammy, Brienne was there to blot his face, neck and chest with a damp cloth. Though Qyburn would have been able to tend to him more adequately, the truth of the matter was Brienne didn't trust the grizzled old man, for how could he call himself a Maester when he lacked a proper Maester's chain? So rather than seek out his assistance, and therefore draw attention to herself, Brienne tended to the ailing lion as best as she could given the circumstances.

  
Brienne sits next to him as he sleeps, peacefully for once, she notes, with the same damp cloth in her big hand ready to blot at a moment's notice, when she notices a twitch from his eyes, followed by a murmur: ' _sei'_ is all she's able to hear, however, as Jaime's voice is weak. “Ser Jaime...?” she asks, her own voice soft.

  
“Cer...,” Jaime mumbles again, delirious. “Cer...sei?”

  
Brienne shakes her head. “No, Ser Jaime. It is I, Brienne of Tarth.”

  
Jaime blinks languidly a few times, vision blurry and crusted with sleep and haze. “Wench?” he croaks out, his throat and mouth parched. Brienne watches his eyes as they focus on a nearby water pitcher. She reaches for it and pours Jaime a glass. He takes it into his left hand, but in his haste to quench his thirst and awkwardness of having to use his left hand, Jaime fumbles the glass, drenching himself and the coarse blanket covering him.

  
“Seven Hells!” he curses, looking visibly frustrated over his new circumstances. “Forgive me, my lady.”

  
“You will learn to adapt in time, Ser Jaime,” Brienne offers, bending to snatch up the goblet. She fills it once more and holds it before him. “If you wish to overcome, you must first adapt. Try again.”

  
Jaime expels a heavy sigh, knowing Brienne to be right. He turns to look at her and carefully reaches for the goblet...only to grasp Brienne's pale, calloused hand instead. Brienne can't stop the rouge from flaring on her cheeks. In typical Jaime Lannister fashion, the wounded lion grins, Cheshire-like, his eyes glinting with mischief. “Gods, your face – you're fancying this, aren't you? I never would have deduced that the mighty Brienne of Tarth would become so smitten by the misplaced touch of a man!”

  
Brienne quickly repels from his touch, clutching the goblet with such ferocity she fears she may crumple it. “I am not!” she proclaims with a snarl. It's all she can do to keep herself from throwing the still-full goblet at his smug face.

  
Jaime's grin broadens into a full smile briefly, before he lets out a hearty chuckle. “Ease, ease. I was merely jesting, my lady. Dare I say that you are far too gullible.”

  
Brienne regards him stoically, her patience wearing thin. “If you are quite finished, I suggest you shut your mouth and try again, lest I make you _eat_ this goblet...”

 

* * *

 

Brienne and Jaime sit before Roose Bolton, Lord of the Dreadfort and patriarch of House Bolton, some time later over breakfast. Jaime is, to Lord Bolton's secret amusement, failing in the worst possible way when it comes to doing something so trivial as cutting one's own food, unaccustomed to having to do so with his uncoordinated left hand. But watching the broken man struggle was merely a rather pleasant side effect to the real reason the Kingslayer and his hulking brute of a companion were gathered at Lord Bolton's table and filling their bellies with his food.

  
Before he can speak, however, Lord Bolton is cut off by the sudden sight of Brienne picking up her fork and lunging it into the mutton chop on Jaime's plate. Jaime looks at her, wanting to thank her, but his pride -- and his company -- keeps him from doing so. Instead, he begins cutting the meat into small cubes. _I don't deserve you_ , he thinks to himself before his thoughts turn to his sister and how she will react to his new circumstances. _She would probably be far less...accommodating..._

  
“I see Qyburn managed to find something more appropriate for you to wear, my lady.” observes Roose in that trademark monotonous, stoic voice of his.

  
Brienne takes inventory of her new...attire. A garish pink dress, its fabric dingy and reeking of mold and old age as if it had been festering in an old trunk somewhere. The furs around the neck line are patchy and irritating to her neck. She'd noted almost immediately that it had clearly been made for someone with shorter arms, slighter shoulders, and blessed with far bigger breasts. To put it simply, it had been made with a _woman's_ body in mind. Not one so androgynous and brutish as her. What she wouldn't give to tear this vile thing from her body. She steels herself, however, and feigns courtesy instead: “Yes...He is most kind, my lord.”

  
Brienne gives a brief side glance to Jaime, who has already consumed several of the mutton cubes and failing in his attempt to cut more. “You are a Stark bannerman, Lord Bolton. I am acting on Lady Catelyn Stark's orders to return Ser Jaime to King's Landing in exchange for her two children, Sansa and Arya.”

  
Lord Bolton, ever stoic, regards Brienne's claims with calm skepticism. “When King Robb left Harrenhal, his mother was his prisoner. If she wasn't his mother, I assure you he would have had her hung for treason.” Lord Bolton glares at an occupied Jaime Lannister. While the glare of contempt is lost on the crippled Lannister, it is not, however, lost on his able companion. And before long, a tense, heavy air descends upon the cold room as Brienne and Lord Bolton continue to size each other up in silence, with only the sound of utensils clanking together in futility as Jaime struggles.

  
Brienne's brow furrows together in annoyance if only for a moment before she reaches over Jaime's plate to stab at the half eaten mutton chop and untouched pile of eggs. Her sharp blue eyes never once leave Bolton's. The smug lord can't help but smirk, relishing in Jaime's misfortune. For the only thing better than a dead lion is being able to watch a crippled lion struggle, he thinks.

  
“I should send you back to Robb Stark,” Bolton tells Jaime.

  
“Perhaps you should,” Jaime quips, finally having regained back some of his lost wit. “And yet, you're here watching me fail at breakfast. Why is that?” he asks before popping a cube of meat into his mouth with the tip of his knife.

  
“Wars cost money,” Bolton replies, still smug. “There's quite a few who would pay a great deal for you, Kingslayer.”

  
Brienne can't help but notice the slightest hint of agitation on Jaime's face at the mere mention of that cursed moniker, and after what transpired in the bath the night before, she vowed to never refer to him in such a foul way again.

  
“Indeed, but you and I both know who would pay the most,” Jaime replies.

  
Lord Bolton concedes. “Perhaps. Then again, perhaps the safest course of action would be to kill you both and burn your bodies,” His eyes regard Brienne, devoid of warmth or compassion.

  
Brienne reaches with haste for her knife, ready to lunge for Bolton's throat, but is quickly placated by Jaime's hand upon hers. In spite of the drafty nature of the room, Jaime's palm is warm, his grip compelling and, strangely, soothing... yet she knows this is hardly the time or the place to be figuring out matters of her heart.

  
“Perhaps. Of course, the only problem with that is trying to make sure my father never found out about it, and should any harm come to Lady Brienne, well, let's just say Lord Selwyn would have no qualms about wanting to see your head on a spike.”

  
Lord Bolton weighs his options – either kill his “guests” outright and ultimately face the wrath of the most powerful of the Great Houses of Westeros in House Lannister – he wasn't at all concerned about the dying House Tarth or its ailing patriarch – or play his hand right and get something valuable in return for the Kingslayer. “...Very well. As soon as Qyburn clears you as being well enough to travel, I will allow you to return to King's Landing as restitution for the mistakes made by my men. And in return, you will tell your father the truth – that I had nothing to do with your maiming. Are these conditions understood?”

  
Jaime gives a curt nod before reaching for the pitcher of ale in the middle of the table. “Shall we drink on it?”

  
“I don't partake,” Lord Bolton replies, covering the mouth of his cup.

  
“You do realize how suspicious that sounds to ordinary people...?” Jaime quips as he pours himself and Brienne a cup of ale instead. He shrugs. “Very well. My lady, may our journey continue without further incident!”

  
“Oh, she won't be accompanying you, I'm afraid.” Bolton interjects.

  
“But Lord Bolton, I am charged with returning--” Brienne replies.

  
She's cut off by a defiant Lord Bolton. “You are charged with abetting treason, which is punishable by death, my lady. You should be counting your blessings over the fact that I've instructed my men to exercise restraint when it comes to your well-being. I can assure you a lesser man would be far less accommodating to a...woman of your looks.”

  
Brienne steels herself though her heart thumps with unease at the nonchalant tone of Bolton's voice and the intentions put forth by his remark. She and Jaime both turn to look at each other. Though she doesn't show it, Jaime can see almost immediately that the woman is concerned and, dare he say it, fearful. The look in her eyes –- a look he's seen upon her face only one other time during their travels -- is enough to wrench his heart, and he knows with every fibre of his mortal being that he must not leave here without her, lest she befall certain defilement and death.

  
“I'm afraid I must insist that Lady Brienne accompany me back to King's Landing, as per Lady Catelyn's orders, Lord Bolton.”

  
“You are in no position to insist on anything, Kingslayer. My terms are non-negotiable – either you entrust Lady Brienne to me and return to King's Landing, or I make an example out of both of you. Pray that I do not alter these conditions any further.”

  
Jaime clenches his jaw, willing himself to avoid eye contact with Brienne. He can't bear to look at her, at those big blue eyes as deep as the ocean; at those blue eyes he's come to find solace and strength in when he felt he could go on no longer. Those blue eyes that somehow saw beyond the infamous title of Kingslayer, beyond the deed that would forever torment him in spite of the good of his intention, beyond the loss of his identity. He was just a man to her. Not a cripple. Not a shadow of his former glory. Not a Kingslayer. Not an Oathbreaker. Just a man. Just Jaime. And for the first time, Jaime realizes, unable to keep from looking over at her, that Brienne of Tarth sees in him all he's ever wanted to be in the seventeen years since slaying the Mad King – just a man.

  
Just Jaime.

 


	3. Harrenhal II (A Lannister Always Pays His Debts)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime and Brienne reluctantly part; Jaime begins his trek back to King's Landing, alone and left to question Brienne's fate and his future without her. At Harrenhal, Brienne struggles to stay alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back again, my lovelies, with another chapter for your reading pleasure! From the end of this chapter onward, consider this story (finally) worthy of its "canon divergence" tag, lol. I had a lot of fun writing this chapter, as you can probably tell it's the longest chapter thus far, with my word program estimating it to be around 10 pages in length. Yay for long chapters! Anyway, here we go!

Jaime has been both dreading and praying for this day in the days since his and Brienne's tense meeting with Lord Bolton. He's been cleared to begin his trek back to King's Landing, though he won't be going alone. Steelshanks, a simple man-at-arms serving House Bolton, along with several of his men, and Qyburn, will be accompanying Jaime on his journey home. While he knows he should be feeling something other than remorse and helplessness, Jaime's heart aches terribly nevertheless. For Brienne. The thought of having to leave her here in this wretched place, with Locke, that impetuous cunt with the gall to call himself a man, is enough to nearly drive Jaime to madness. It's inevitable, Jaime knows, for the moment he leaves the crumbling walls of Harrenhal, Brienne will be tortured, raped and defiled, perhaps even killed.

  
And Jaime positively loathes himself for it.

  
It takes every ounce of will for the Lion to make the climb to her chambers, but he knows he must. If only to look upon her face once more. A Bolton guard stands watch outside the door to Brienne's room. “I'm here to say goodbye,” Jaime tells him before the guard unlocks the door and allows him permission to enter.

  
Jaime takes a few steps into Brienne's chambers, the door closing behind him, and merely watches her sitting on the crude bed, slumped over in that hideous gown still, staring off into nothing as if merely waiting to die... His blood goes cold. His mouth turns dry. _Saying goodbye shouldn't be this difficult_ , he muses, having done so plenty of times in his life. Yet this goodbye he cannot possibly bear to utter, for Brienne hasn't become just another forgetful face to him during this tumultuous journey... She's become his only true friend, his confidant. But above all...

  
Jaime quickly stops himself, swallowing hard. _Hurry up and get it over with, Jaime_ , he tells himself. “My lady.”

  
Brienne turns to look at him before coming to her feet. The pair exchange an almost tender, knowing gaze. “I thought you would be well and gone by now.”

  
Jaime shifts his weight from one foot to the other, uncomfortable. “Steelshanks and his men are waiting. I just...wanted to bade you farewell before I left.”

  
Brienne feels her lips twinge into a light smile. “That was very kind of you, Ser Jaime. May your journey be a safe one.”

  
_It should be our journey,_ he tells her within the silence of his mind, feeling once more the regret turning his stomach. “...I did not wish to part under these circumstances, Brienne. I wish I could have done more...” _So much more..._

  
They share another moment of silence, of pining, of regret for words left unsaid and moments left to fester and die. “...Have they told you what they plan to do with me?” Brienne is eventually able to ask.

  
“Lord Bolton is set to depart for The Twins today to attend Edmure Tully's wedding. You're to remain here –“

  
“With Locke,” Brienne finishes without a hint of emotion.

  
Jaime nods before stammering, “I-I...” His mouth parts ever so slightly as if to finish, but the words falter and die well before they reach his mouth. Instead, he can only watch as Brienne strides over to him, her posture straight and steadfast. Her eyes though, he notices, though still big and blue and beautiful, lack their usual shimmer and strength. She's now within arms length, and her unconventional beauty is even more apparent at this meager distance. Her body an amalgamation of subtle femininity and rugged masculine strength Jaime is quite certain he's never seen before; Jaime steels himself and the warmth pooling within the depths of his belly. “I owe you a debt.”

  
In the silence, Jaime's thoughts briefly turn to Cersei, knowing she's inadvertently part of the reason why he's unable to allow himself to love another, or see a world beyond her influence. _Gods, why have you condemned me to love such a hateful woman?_

  
“When Catelyn Stark released you, we both swore an oath to return her daughters to her. Keep it, and consider the debt paid.”

  
“I will return the Stark girls to their mother. You have my word,” Jaime replies. It's the first oath he's taken to heed in years. For Brienne.

  
Brienne's chin wobbles, her eyes bright with unspent tears and knowing the end of their time together is nigh. “Goodbye, Ser Jaime.”

  
Jaime stands motionless, silently drinking in the sight of her one last time and memorizing her every subtle curve, before turning in haste for the door.

  
Outside, the overcast sky has given way to a cold persistent drizzle. Steelshanks and his group wait mounted atop their horses while Lord Bolton watches from a distance. When Jaime appears and begins to prepare his horse, the group shares a hearty laugh at his expense as he struggles to mount his steed with just the strength of his weaker left hand.

  
Qyburn attempts to help him by offering him a boost. “It will take time,” the former maester assures the now mounted Jaime in an attempt to quell the Lannister's look of discouragement and frustration.

  
As the group begins to depart the crumbling walls of Harrenhal, the insidious Locke, having spotted his former source of entertainment, mocks Jaime one final time, sneering, “Safe journey, Kingslayer. Don't worry about the big bitch. We'll take good care of her...”

  
Jaime spits daggers at Locke, his blue eyes dark and full of dire intent. What he wouldn't give to be able to rip out the bastard's throat right now. While he may not be able to anymore, Jaime is confident that Brienne may very well succeed should she desire to engage him. Of that he has no doubt.

  
Locke cocks a scarred eyebrow, curious. “Nothing ta say? I liked ya better before. I don't remember choppin' yer bawls off too!”

  
_Let nothing stay your hand, my lady_ , Jaime tells Brienne within the silence of his mind as his band departs.

 

* * *

 

The Maid of Tarth sits in quiet contemplation within her musty chambers. When Locke and his men intercepted her and Jaime on the bridge some weeks ago, they promptly stripped the pair of their arms and in Brienne's case, armor. Not that she would have been able to slaughter everyone here by herself and still escape with her life, anyway. Truth be told, she wasn't afraid of death, so long as it came in response to a purpose. She would have gladly given her life to protect Renly, to protect the weak and innocent... To protect Jaime. Alas, she muses with some irony, it is her that needs protection now.

  
The sound of the door groaning as it opens is enough to rouse the hairs on the back of Brienne's neck and bring the lady knight from within herself.

  
Locke, looking as impish and sadistic as usual, dressed in dark, heavy furs befitting of the North. “Aye,” he greets with a snicker.

  
Brienne refuses to look at him. “What do you want, cretin?”

  
“Better watch that tart tongue of yours. The Kingslayer and Lord Bolton aren't here to save you anymore. Big, dumb bitch.” Locke replies with a sneer before reaching for the clasp of his belt. “You look like you could use a good fucking, even if you are ugly as the Stranger takin' a shit.”

  
_Ser Jaime, let it be known that I, Brienne of Tarth, did not leave this world without a fight befitting of the Warrior. My oath is now yours...,_ Brienne pledges to herself with a grim sense of finality. She knows with almost lucid certainty that she will not come from this place alive, nor with her honor unbesmirched...yet she does not cower in the face of this certain death, rising to her feet, defiant. She looks at Locke with a gaze so frigid it would make the blood of a true Northerner turn cold, her hands clenched into fists so tight her knuckles turn as white as bone. Terrified as she may be, Brienne knows she cannot cower in the face of the Stranger. Not now. Not ever.

  
With a fierce roar torn raw from the depths of her soul, Brienne lunges for the swarthy bastard. If she is to be extinguished from this world, it will not be done without a fight.

  
  


* * *

 

After some hours of travel, Jaime, Steelshanks and his men sit camped upon a hill, its grasses verdant and thriving from the recent storms, to rest and fill their bellies. While Jaime munches on a piece of jerky, Qyburn dutifully tends to his stump. “How's the pain, my lord?”

  
Jaime winces, a white hot bolt of pain shooting through his arm, as Qyburn gently removes the end cap to visually inspect the wound. He's pleased. Though the wound still appears rather grievous, it looks to be healing and is a far cry from what it looked like the day of Jaime's arrival to Harrenhal. “I had my hand chopped off, what do you think?” Jaime retorts bitterly. “Tell me, what's the purpose of a knight with no sword hand?”

  
But Qyburn doesn't answer, instead choosing to focus on Jaime's stump. “It appears we've stymied the corruption, thank the Seven.”

  
“You're a learned man.”

  
“All the good it's done me,” Qyburn replies while readying an ointment.

  
“You did well sewing up this mess,” Jaime says, eyeing his stump. “Probably saved my life, even.”

  
“Faint praise, my lord.” Qyburn scoffs. Jaime winces as the pale white balm is spread in delicate sheets across the wound.

  
“Why did the Citadel take your chain?” Jaime asks, hoping to distract himself from the biting pain and the stink of the balm. “Did you fondle one boy too many?”

  
Qyburn chuckles whilst wrapping Jaime's wrist in a fresh dressing. “No, my lord. That's not my weakness.”

  
“What is then, pray tell.”

  
The maester regards him. “Curiosity. You see, my lord, the only way to treat disease is to understand disease.” He continues to carefully wrap Jaime's wrist. “And the only way to understand it, is to study the afflicted.”

  
Jaime cocks his brow, both curious and slightly unnerved. “You performed experiments on living--”

  
Qyburn sharply interjects, “On dying or already dead men, my lord.”

  
“With their permission?” Jaime counters. He doesn't know whether to thank the former maester for salvaging the majority of his right arm, or bludgeoning him to death with whatever blunt object he can find.

  
But Qyburn adverts the question. “My studies have given me insight that has saved many lives over the years.” The maester poses his own question as he begins to replace his supplies into the simple satchel. “How many men have you killed, my lord?”

  
Jaime looks at him, befuddled. “I don't know.”

  
“Fifty? One hundred?” Qyburn prods. “Countless?”

  
“Countless...has a nice ring to it,” Jaime replies with wry humor.

  
“And how many lives have you saved?”

  
_More than you'll ever hope to know_ , Jaime thinks. “Quite a few. What are you getting at, exactly?” Jaime asks, slightly agitated now.

  
Qyburn looks at Jaime in silence as if waiting for the knight to answer.

  
“The population of King's Landing,” Jaime concedes. _Half a million. I saved half a million lives, and for what? So the people of the capital could look down in pity and disgrace upon me? So my good name could get dragged through the piss and shit of the Seven Kingdoms for all eternity?_

  
The maester considers Jaime carefully yet does not speak a word. Carefully places Jaime's stump back into the tattered cloth sling around his neck.

  
“But I suppose it doesn't matter now. You were in charge of the ravens at Harrenhal, were you not? Did you send one off to Lady Brienne's father in Tarth?”

  
“Yes. A bird flew off and a bird flew back,” Qyburn replies, nonchalant. “Lord Selwyn Tarth offered three hundred Gold Dragons for his daughter's safe return.”

  
“A fair offer, I should say,” Jaime replies with a nod in spite of the fact that, internally, he doesn't fancy where this conversation is going. And he knows he is strictly to blame.

  
“Quite. But Locke won't take it,” Qyburn muses. “The man is convinced that Lord Tarth owns all of the sapphire mines in Westeros. So you can understand why Locke feels as if he's being cheated by such an offer.”

  
Jaime grits his teeth. _Sometimes I think Cersei, and Tyrion, and Hells, even my father, might be right about me when they say I'm the stupidest Lannister. All brawn and shit for brains. And now I don't even have the brawn anymore. Stupid, Jaime. Stupid, stupid!_

  
He gets to his feet, suddenly feeling sick to his stomach, but not from the jerky. From guilt and remorse. _“_ Locke and his men would be fools to kill her.”

  
Qyburn continues to pack his medical supplies. “These men have been at war for a long time, my lord. Most of them will be dead come winter. She'll be their entertainment tonight. But beyond that? I don't think they care very much.”

  
Jaime looks with forlorn toward the muddy gray horizon, knowing that Brienne is either dead or gravely injured by now. He remembers the look of sadistic relish in Locke's beady eyes when the two exchanged heated stares during Jaime's departure from Harrenhal. And that gleeful, arrogant smirk. _Joffrey would get along with him_ , Jaime quips to himself, having seen the same look in Joffrey's eyes many times before. And nothing good ever came from that look.

  
Jaime spots Steelshanks sitting on a rock, nursing a boiled leather flask. “You. Steelshanks, if I'm correct?”

  
“Aye. What do you want, Kingslayer?”

  
“We have to return to Harrenhal at once,” Jaime replies with calm urgency.

  
Steelshanks simply snorts. “Are you mad? The corruption must have spread to yer brain!”

  
But Jaime isn't finding the man-at-arms amusing. “I've left something important behind.”

  
Steelshanks takes another swig. “You can do it with yer other hand, you idiot,” he grins.

  
Jaime rolls his eyes. “Are you finished? We travel back to Harrenhal. Now!”

  
“Absolutely not. I have my orders from Lord Bolton, Kingslayer,” Steelshanks replies, stepping up on Jaime and puffing his chest out in a show of dominance.

  
But the Lion doesn't back down, nor is he intimidated by the simple man's weak attempt at asserting his authority. “And what are those orders?”

  
“To deliver you to your father, Lord Tywin, in King's Landing,” comes Steelshanks reply.

  
Jaime's eyes narrow. “You think you'll get a reward.”

  
“I serve Lord Bolton.”

  
“You think you will get a reward!” Jaime growls. “Let me explain something to you. When my father sees me, the first thing he's going to ask me is what happened to my hand,” Jaime gestures to his stump with his left hand, “And do you know what I'll tell him? That you – Steelshanks – chopped it off without a fucking care in the world.”

  
Steelshanks looks upon Jaime with alarm. “I had nothing--”

  
“Or, I could say that you, Steelshanks, saved my life,” Jaime interjects, his blue eyes sharp and assertive. “We return to Harrenhal. Now.”

  
  


* * *

 

Birds caw overhead as a bitter breeze stirs through the crumbling walls of Harrenhal. The birds' calls are soon replaced by the thunderous rumble of hoofbeats, and before long, echo into silence. Jaime, his heart pounding in his chest, takes inventory of the yard. It's empty. In the distance, however, he can barely make out the sounds of men's voices, raucous and thunderous like the sky overhead. He awkwardly dismounts his horse, his legs compelled to carry him in the direction of the voices. It sounds like chanting, or singing, and he instinctively picks up the pace as Steelshanks and his men follow suit.

  
As the singing gets louder, so does Jaime's pulse in his ears until it's the only thing he can hear. And then it stops, if only for a moment, as his eyes look upon a towering but crudely built, wooden structure. People are jammed atop it, their fists pumping high into the air, taunting. Jaime swallows hard, climbing the shaky wooden stairs with haste, only to push his way through the crowd gathered around the circular pit.

  
His mouth falls open, gasping in disbelief, his eyes as big as saucers.

  
Brienne, still wearing that garish gown -- now caked with mud and blood – her feet planted firmly into the muck, and armed with nothing more than a wooden tourney sword. Pitted in a battle to the death against a massive bear, who, by the looks of the gaping claw marks on Brienne's neck, looks to be more than the lady knight can handle.

  
_A wooden sword?!_ Jaime spits to himself with utter vexation. “You gave her a _wooden sword?!”_ he growls at Locke, impetuous.

  
“Ah, nice of you to join us once again, Kingslayer! You came just in time to see your friend answer for denying me what is mine by right. What she did to me, she should consider herself lucky I even gave her a weapon at all!” He watches Brienne continuing to circle the beast. “This has been one shameful fuckin' performance! Stop running and fight!”

  
Jaime can't help but smirk with pride at the sight of the top of Locke's ear looking as though it's been completely bitten off and already starting to fester. _You would make a fine Lannister indeed, Lady Brienne, for you are clearly the fiercest lion I've ever had the fortune of knowing. A lion still has claws, indeed..._ “Is that why she's in there? Because she didn't give the rat his reward? Look, I'll pay her bloody ransom – gold, sapphires, whatever you want – just get her the hell out of there.”

  
Out of the corner of his eye, Jaime watches with baited breath as Brienne and the beast circle each other.

  
Locke shakes his head in shame. “All you lords and ladies. Think the only thing that matters is gold--” he reaches for Jaime's stump, but Jaime is quick to deny him the pleasure, “but _this_ makes me happier than all your precious gold ever could, Kingslayer.” The impish man looks down at Brienne. “And _that_ makes me happier than all her sapphires. So why don't you go get yourself a golden hand and go fuck yourself with it!”

  
Jaime can do nothing but watch as the beast rears back on its hind legs and towers over even Brienne, its massive teeth bared and glistening with spittle. Brienne thrusts her pitiful sword, aiming for the bear's gaping maw, only to watch in terror as the bear swipes it away, breaking the tourney sword like a twig. The agitated beast then goes on the offensive, swiping at the maiden and knocking her to the muck as if she were a ragdoll.

  
The bear swipes at the mud below its feet, ready to charge and land the killing blow, when Jaime thrusts himself into the arena, no longer able to just sit idly by and watch as his one and only champion in this world is cruelly taken from him. Jaime scurries to his feet, now face to face with the snarling bear.

  
“Ser Jaime? What are you doing here?” Brienne gasps, taken aback.

  
“Something stupid,” Jaime replies, knowing it to be very stupid indeed. Stupid, but right. “Get behind me!”

  
But Brienne, seven blessings to her, is still just as pig-headed even when in the company of an angry bear intent on eating the flesh off her bones. “I will not!”

  
Jaime grabs her with his weaker hand. “Now is not the time to be pig-headed, wench! Just do as I tell you!”

  
Brienne clambers to her feet.

  
“Pull her up, you fools!” Jaime barks to the onlookers above before using his own back as a stool in order to thrust Brienne upwards. His back groans painfully beneath her bulk. “Steelshanks! You want that reward so badly? Now's the time to prove your mettle!”

  
Steelshanks readies his crossbrow as Jaime distracts the bear long enough for the man-at-arms to get a clean shot off.

  
“The fuck you doin' to my bear?!” Locke admonishes.

  
“Following my orders! Lord Bolton ordered me to get him to King's Landing – alive – so that's what I'm goin' to do!” Steelshanks replies before quickly readying another bolt.

  
Brienne strains with great effort to claw her way out of the bear pit, but once she does, she wastes no time in offering aid to the still vulnerable Jaime Lannister. “Hold my legs!” she calls to anyone who will listen, only to feel a pair of hands gripping her ankles in assistance. She stretches the length of her six-foot-three inch frame as far as she is able, and then some, in order to reach for Jaime. To her horror, the bear breaks into a lumbering run, and for a moment Brienne fears Jaime is about to be mauled to death, and she forced to watch, only to find herself gasping with a sigh of relief. Jaime's hand, big and warm, holding on to hers for dear life. “Pull us up!”

  
The pair help each other to their feet, gasping for sweet breath.

  
Locke looks upon them with disdain. “The bitch stays.”

  
Jaime asserts himself, his tone threatening. “Her name is Brienne, the Maid of Tarth. And I'm taking her with me to King's Landing. Unless you kill me. And I hardly think you're man enough to do it. Not if you value your head, swine.”

  
Tension fills the crisp air as Locke's men stand ready to draw their swords. “I don't give two fucks who she is – she belongs to me. Lord Bolton's orders!”

  
Jaime remains undaunted by the looming threat of bloodshed permeating the air. “What do you think is more important to Lord Bolton? Giving his rabid cur a reward, or making sure Tywin Lannister gets his son back alive?”

  
Locke joins his men, his hand clutching the hilt of his blade as a standoff ensues. The bear roars below and only adds to the danger of the situation. After a few tense moments, however, Locke relents, allowing Jaime, Brienne, and their group passage.

  
Jaime glances briefly over his shoulder at Brienne, her face covered in blood and grime, cheeks rosy against her pale flesh. “Well my lady, we must be on our way.”

  
Brienne, weak and gravely injured from her ordeal, is only able to manage a slight nod of her head. But it's enough for Jaime to begin for the stairs.

  
“I owe you my life, Ser Jaime... But you were well away. Why come back?” Brienne asks flatly once the group is free of Harrenhal.

  
Jaime Lannister is left speechless much in the same way as he was during their farewell. Only this time, he vows not to squander what he considers to be a second chance at...a great many things, really. _Brienne_ , he now understands, is his second chance. His second chance to change and become the man she believes he can be, that his father believes he can be. The man he was before being soiled by the white cloak, before Aerys Targaryen. The man he himself wants to be.

  
And without so much as another word, the crippled lion spins to acknowledge the Maid of Tarth.... with his mouth upon hers. In spite of her inhibitions, Brienne is too weak and exhausted to fight the knight's sudden gesture. But did she really want to? For all that she is -- headstrong to a fault, graceless and lumbering; a brutish, ugly giantess more comfortable in the heavy mail of a man than elaborate gowns spun with the finest silks and intricate embroidery -- there's still a part of her that has yearned for this moment since she was but a child. This one, singular moment of a man proclaiming his love _for her_ and not for what she represented.

  
Jaime Lannister, he who forsook every vow he'd ever taken, soiled the sanctity of the white cloak, forever to be branded as a Kingslayer, Oathbreaker, and Man Without Honor, loved _her_. Not the prospect of wealth and power one would gain by marriage to her, like so many suitors of Brienne's past. Just _her_ , and everything she was, or would ever be, blemishes and all.

  
"I dreamed of you." he confesses, brushing a fallen fringe of pale blonde hair from her eyes. "You are still maiden, I trust?"

  
Brienne lingers there in his arms. "You saw what I did to Locke, did you not?"

  
Jaime chuckles. "I did, yes."

  
"There's your answer, then, I should say," Brienne replies with a proud smile before taking Jaime's hand into hers and walking towards Jaime's horse. "Let's us be on our way, Ser Jaime. Back to King's Landing."

 


	4. Schism

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime and his small party arrive in King's Landing and are immediately tested; Tyrion meets with Brienne; Jaime reunites with Cersei; Tywin discusses the future of House Lannister with Jaime.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to thank everyone who has left comments and given kudos thus far. I'm overwhelmed by just how much you all seem to be digging my first foray into the GoT fandom. Seriously, it means a lot to me, so thank you from the bottom of my heart <3 
> 
> This chapter is the longest one thus far, and while writing it, I was toying with a couple of different scenarios, but in the end, I decided on what is before you. I had a blast writing this and I hope you have a blast reading it!

Cersei and Jaime Lannister had been born into the world together, to Lady Joanna and her husband, Lord Tywin Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock, Lord paramount of The Westerlands, and former Hand of the King to Aerys II Targaryen. What had begun as mere affection between siblings when Jaime and Cersei were children blossomed into forbidden love once they reached their teens, unbeknownst to Tywin. Jaime's love for Cersei was the reason he joined the Kingsguard shortly after being knighted, becoming its youngest member in history during his sixteenth year. While being in the Kingsguard – a vow sworn for life -- meant having to give up his position as heir to Casterly Rock, as well as father no children or take no lands, it also meant Jaime was able to stay with Cersei in the Red Keep and continue their incestuous relationship.

  
When word reached the capital of her brother's capture at the hands of King in The North, Robb Stark, Cersei had been inconsolable. As the weeks went on and turned in to months, Cersei grew more and more dependent on wine and the company of other suitors to fill the void left by Jaime's absence and uncertain future. He's been out of her life for a year and a half now, and as a result, The Lioness of Lannister has resigned herself to the fact that for all that Jaime is and was to her, he's more than likely dead by now, somewhere, thanks to those wretched Starks and their insolent allies. There have been no ravens to speak of for months about Jaime or his whereabouts. In some ways, Cersei feels as if a part of her died with Jaime as well, for he was everything she sought to be, and would be had it not been for what was between her legs.

  
Still, for everything Jaime had been to Cersei – brother, lover, confidant, protector – a great part of her, born out of envy and a lust for power, was secretly glad to be rid of her infamous twin; with Jaime dead and knowing their father would never entertain the idea of giving their dwarf brother, Tyrion, the right to reign over Casterly Rock, in time the ancestral seat of House Lannister would be hers to rule as Lady of Casterly Rock, and Lady Paramount of The Westerlands.

  
It was almost too perfect, all this future power. But not as perfect as the great cock currently ravaging her wet, throbbing cunt. The great beast of a man currently beneath her, his huge hand cupping her ass while the other hand straddles her clit, personifies his nickname in every sense of the word. A mountain among men, towering high above mere mortals and striking palpable fear into hearts across Westeros. He is Ser Gregor Clegane, older brother to Sandor “The Hound” Clegane, and the most feared man in the known world, thanks in no small part to his vile disposition, savage bloodlust, and preternatural strength. Known far and wide as a beast harboring no known weakness, The Mountain is a man without equal.

  
Yet Cersei had managed to tame the beast with a simple promise: The promise of power in exchange for his undying loyalty to her, and her alone. The fact that her father is the true power in King's Landing – not his grandson, King Joffrey Baratheon – as well as the richest, most powerful man in Westeros is of little concern to Cersei in the grand scheme of things to come... For power was power.

 

* * *

 

There had been times during his capture when Jaime Lannister thought he'd never again see King's Landing, walk the halls of the vast Red Keep, nor fight for the honor of his proud House, or see his beloved younger brother and twin sister. But somehow, thanks in no small part to the efforts of Lady Catelyn Stark and Brienne of Tarth, only one of those bloody prospects had come true. Unfortunately, it was quite possibly the worst of those prospects, particularly where his father was concerned: the loss of his sword hand. Without it, Jaime knew he was as good as dead to his prideful, ruthless father.

  
Jaime's thoughts turn to Brienne, for she is a big reason he is still alive. Not just because of her inner strength and skill with a sword, but because of her uncanny ability to see beyond his forsaken vows, broken oaths, and infamous deeds. She saw him merely as Ser Jaime Lannister. Not Kingslayer, not Oathbreaker, nor as the Man Without Honor. Just Jaime.

  
Ever since he'd been old enough to comprehend, Jaime had viewed his sister as his Other Half, held fast to the belief that though their bond would undoubtedly bend, it would never break. He was hers as she was his... But that all began to change after Brienne entered his life. Cersei had been all Jaime had ever known. He knew of no other love than that of Cersei, as self serving as it was; Cersei would take and take from him, but give nothing in return unless she was to benefit from it.

  
But Brienne...she was everything Cersei wasn't and everything he had been, once. Before he'd donned the white cloak and gold armor of the fabled Kingsguard. He'd grown up wanting to be like Ser Arthur Dayne, Sword of the Morning and the greatest swordsman in Westerosi history, and Ser Barristan Selmy, known far and wide as Barristan The Bold. In the end, however, all Jaime became was the infamous Kingslayer, and a glorified bodyguard to the Mad King and his successor, King Robert of House Baratheon.

  
 _And now_ , Jaime thinks to himself as he enters King's Landing alongside Brienne, Qyburn and Steelshanks, _I can add yet another moniker to my list: cripple._ The smell of piss and shit is quick to knock Jaime out of his head. The smells coupled with the ragged clothing and haggard appearance of the smallfolk is all Jaime needs to decipher that he's in Flea Bottom, one of the more destitute areas of the capital, where infamous “bowls o' brown” are served aplenty and the hope of a better life is just that.

  
He stops, watching the smallfolk go about their business, realizing that with his own ragged clothes, longer hair and beard, and stump in a crude sling, the people turn a blind eye to him. And while it feels nice not to be recognized or hear people utter the name “Kingslayer” under their foul breath, Jaime also finds this new anonymity strange and unnerving. He looks to Brienne over his shoulder, dressed in similar clothing – an improvement from that hideous gown, he thinks – who looks back at him with unspoken understanding, having been treated with the same anonymity her entire life merely because she was a woman dressed in man's mail. The pair continue to engage in wordless conversation before Brienne blesses Jaime with a gentle smile.

  
“My lady, it is my honor to welcome you to King's Landing,” he announces before resuming his casual pace through the dusty streets. “Please do watch your step around here.”

  
But the group is eventually stopped by two members of the Kingsguard; one knight in particular is quick to recognize not Jaime or the other male members of his small party, but Brienne. “You!” barks the knight, moving with purpose toward the towering woman, hand clutching the hilt of the blade at his hip.

  
“I'll handle this, wench,” Jaime assures her under his breath, grinning, before turning his attention to the knights. Loras Tyrell and Meryn Trant. While Jaime didn't respect Ser Meryn in the least due to the man's pompous demeanor, cowardice, casual cruelty, and using the white cloak to do as he wanted, the same could not be said about Ser Loras who, in Jaime's eyes, was actually somewhat worthy of donning the white cloak, and a gifted swordsman to boot. “Ah. Ser Loras. Are you not a sight for sore eyes. And you, Ser Meryn. Tell me, have you molested any little girls lately? Little boys? Livestock?” Jaime taunts with a wry grin.

  
Ser Meryn prepares to draw his sword, irate, but is stopped by Loras. “I don't know who you are, but I do not seek an audience with you, country boy. It's the woman I seek,” Loras replies, pointing at Brienne. The curly-haired youth draws his blade, pointing it in her direction. “Brienne The Beauty,” Loras mocks. “I remember you – how you humiliated me, had the audacity to call yourself a knight. Tell me what it is that brings you all the way here? Have you come to confess to your murdering of Lord Renly?”

  
“Better watch your tongue, Ser Loras. I've bore witness to Lady Brienne's prowess in battle. I can assure you that were she more akin to Ser Meryn in temperament and bearing no qualms about doing so, the Lady would gladly best you in a fight and dine on your liver. You'd be wise to heed my advice and shut your mouth, lest it be your corpse we carry out of here.” Jaime retorts.

  
Loras' brow furrows with anger. “And you would do best to heed my advice and not tread on matters that do not concern you.” To prove his point, Loras nudges the tip of his blade to the flesh of Brienne's throat.

  
Jaime looks to Brienne and tries to keep himself from grinning with strange pride at the fact that the woman stands and sounds as dignified and steadfast as the Kingsguard knights of old. “I would never commit such an atrocity, ser. In the name of the Seven, I swear upon my life that I did not slay Lord Renly of House Baratheon, First of His Name, King of the Andals and the First Men--”

  
“Spare me the formalities, Lady Brienne. You are no knight so long as you bear a cunt between your legs, no matter how hard you try. Do you take me for a fool? You were the only one present during his murder, covered in _his_ blood! You're also accused of killing Sers Emmon Cuy and Robar Royce of Renly's Kingsguard – two men far more honorable than you can ever hope to be! Seven help me, I will have your head!”

  
Sensing the situation is escalating far quicker than anticipated, Jaime intervenes, putting himself between Ser Loras and Brienne, his voice firm, commanding. “Stand down, Ser Loras. That goes for the glorified pedophile accompanying you. As Lord Commander of this Kingsguard, I will not hear you speak these empty threats any longer.”

  
The color drains from the younger man's face, his eyes bulging with surprise. “S-Ser Jaime? Is that you?” he stammers. “F-Forgive me, Lord Commander! I did not recognize you.”

  
“Enough, Ser Loras. If you choose not to heed this order, as Lord Commander I will not think twice about bringing this matter before the King. Now, sheathe your weapon and stand down, ser.”

  
Loras surrenders, backing away from Brienne and sheathing his blade. Glares at her.

  
In response, Jaime gives him a brisk pat on one of the ornate, gold shoulder pauldrons of his armor, grinning, “Good lad. Now escort me and my party to the Red Keep. We are all so bloody tired from our journey.”

 

* * *

  
The Great Hall, with its cavernous feel, marble floors and ornate stained glass windows, was the epicenter of the Red Keep. On the far side of the hall's grand entrance sat the Iron Throne – built from the alleged thousands of swords vanquished by Aegon The Conqueror and forged from the fiery breath of his dragon, Balerion the Dread -- the symbol of authority of the King over all of Westeros. A youth, blonde of hair and wearing a crown of gold stag antlers and a rich red long coat with ornate gold embroidery, sits atop the throne, flanked by his grandfather and Hand of the King, Lord Tywin, and his Master of Coin, Tyrion Lannister.

  
“Uncle! So nice of you to finally join us only _after_ my efforts decided the war in our favor.” King Joffrey Baratheon, believed to be the eldest son of the late King Robert and Queen Cersei Lannister, boasts to Jaime as the latter and his party stand before the wide stone steps. “Although, by the looks of you, you wouldn't have been much use to me anyway.”

  
“If it weren't for the efforts of my party, I'm afraid I wouldn't be here at all for you to mock, Your Grace,” Jaime quips in response before motioning for Brienne to step forward, who bows in respect before King Joffrey, much to the youth's chagrin. “This is Lady Brienne of House Tarth, quite the competent swordsman, and my travel companion for much of my journey.”

  
Joffrey snickers. “Of course she is, uncle. With a face like that, I deduce her being worthless at everything else. Certainly the more traditional skills of a...proper lady. Tell me, _Lady_ Brienne – and believe me when I say I use the term lightly – were you the one forced to fight all my uncle's battles now that he is a crippled old lion?”

  
Tywin and Tyrion look upon Joffrey with scorn, detested by the boy king's cruel insult. Jaime's brow pinches together, his eyes full of contempt before glancing back at Brienne, whose face, while appearing stoic, bears subtle cracks of dejection.

  
Lord Tywin's reprimand is firm and proper. “You will hold that salacious tongue of yours and show Lady Brienne the proper respect befitting of a king, Your Grace,” he warns the petulant sovereign. “I am in your debt, my lady. And please accept my apology on behalf of the king.”

  
Brienne nods. “Thank you, my lord.”

  
Jaime resumes the introductions. “This odd little man is Maester Qyburn--”

  
“ _Former_ maester, Your Grace, my lord.” Qyburn clarifies.

  
Jaime snorts. “Yes, yes, whatever. He was able to save the remnants of my arm. Though he reeks like the sewers of Flea Bottom, he is a far more gifted maester than Grand Master Pycelle could ever be.”

  
“You have my gratitude, maester. Though I wonder your reasons for saving what is essentially a worthless limb now that my son lacks his sword hand.” Tywin muses.

  
“He was rather adamant that his arm stay intact, my lord, even against my counsel.” Qyburn replies.

  
Tywin clears his throat, eager to bring an end to the proceedings and get back his work. “Very well. Maester Qyburn, Lady Brienne, I will see to it that our Master of Coin escorts you to guest chambers; Jaime, see yourself to my quarters in the Tower of the Hand later today, once you presentable. There are issues we must discuss. Your Grace.” Tywin gives his grandson a subtle nod before excusing himself.

 

* * *

 

Sometime later, after the grievous wound on her neck had been tended to and she given milk of the poppy to help with the pain and aid her rest, Brienne is awoken by a courteous knock on her chamber door. She groans, her mind in a haze, before sitting up to stretch the kinks from her muscles. “Yes?” she calls while catching a glimpse of the city below and takes note of the mix of soft blues, purples and reds in the sky. Late afternoon. She feels like she could sleep for a fortnight and it still wouldn't be enough.

  
“Lady Brienne, it is I, Lord Tyrion. Are you decent?”

  
Brienne looks down at herself, smoothing out the wrinkles of her deep blue jerkin. “Quite, my lord. Do come in.”

  
Tyrion pops his head around the opened door before stepping inside and closing the door behind him. Shaggy, deep honey blond hair. Deep set, sullen, blue eyes. A deep scar across the better part of his face. He is unlike his brother Jaime and father Tywin; short of stature, diminutive, yet there's something about the dwarf that makes him far bigger than he is, Brienne can see it in his sharp eyes and the way he approaches her, proud but humble. He is a dwarf to be sure, but the little lion casts a huge shadow. “Pleasure to make your acquaintance, my lady. I've come to see how you are, as well as to discuss my brother.”

  
“A pleasure to make your acquaintance as well, Lord Tyrion. Would you like a chair, my lord?” Brienne asks, preparing to stand.

  
But Tyrion pulls at her big hands in gentle protest. “That's quite all right, my lady. You're still recovering from your journey. Please, sit. I will fetch it myself.”

  
Once Tyrion is seated in front of Brienne, with his customary wine goblet in his chubby hand, the room falls into a brief silence as he takes stock of the maiden. “You make quite the powerful first impression, Lady Brienne. And I mean that in the most complimentary way possible. I thank you for helping in keeping my brother's head on his shoulders – you would be surprised at how many seek to mount it on a spike.” He takes a hearty sip of wine to quench his lips and throat. “Forgive me – do you partake, my lady?” he asks, tipping his goblet towards Brienne, who politely declines. “More for me, it seems. Lady Brienne, if I may pose a question?”

  
“Of course, my lord.”

  
“Jaime – do you love him?”

  
Brienne forces herself to swallow the hard lump Tyrion's question has caused to form in her throat. She stares at him, her expression blank and big blue eyes blinking mindlessly. She struggles to find her words, pulse quickening. “I...I do not know what you mean, my lord.” she replies, perplexed. Deep down, however, she knows that to be a feint; for a moment, the conversation ceases and the room grows silent as Brienne goes into herself and reflects back on the moment Jaime seemingly dropped from the heavens into her hellish nightmare within the Harrenhal pit in order to rescue her, for once the fair and defenseless maiden. Her recollection shifts to the moment his lips claimed hers and the world around her – and her own inborn insecurities about her stark appearance -- ceased to exist. For that one singular moment, a moment she now doubts will ever befall her again, Brienne had felt love, true and pure, mend her perpetually broken heart.

  
Tyrion, noticing the far off look in her eyes, takes her big, calloused hands into his, holding them with delicacy in spite of their rough appearance. “Lady Tarth,” he begins before drawing a breath, his touch having brought her back to reality. He gazes long and hard into her eyes. “I do not know you, my lady. I do not know of the horrors you and my brother were forced to endure during your journey here. But I do know my brother is not the same man he was when he left here, and I suspect you had something to do with that.”

  
“My lord, there was nothing I could do to save his hand--”

  
Tyrion shakes his head in protest. “I have no doubt of that, my lady. What I was trying to say was that he feels like a different person. A...slightly less obnoxious person,” Tyrion smiles at this before continuing. “All jesting aside, I saw the way he looked at you in the throne room, and you at him... Jaime has only ever looked at one person that same way – like he would fight the gods himself in order to protect you. When my brother falls, he falls hard; his love copious, pure and true. I almost envy the poor sod sometimes, being able to love somebody so completely.”

  
“My lord--”

  
“Tyrion, my lady. Just Tyrion.” he says with kindness.

  
Brienne begins anew. “Tyrion. I've been involuntarily sent down this road a few times in my life – when I was a young girl, my father was always throwing balls in my honor; I hated having to dress in those garish gowns. On me, they always made me look more hideous than I already thought myself to be. But I wore them, if only to please my father. He would send word to several suitors at a time in the hopes of betrothing me and turning me into a proper lady. They would dance with me, tell me how radiant I was...until they couldn't keep up the game any longer,” Brienne's eyes sparkle with tears, though she wills them from spilling forth down her rouge tinged cheeks. “Out of pure happenstance, I heard them sniggering to each other about me. _'Brienne The Beauty'_ they called me. Great joke.” she says with scorn and bitterness.

  
“Please, my lady. You don't--”

  
“Yes, my lord, I have to,” Brienne replies, her rebuke firm. “All my life I've been brutalized over my physicality, and as a result I resigned myself to the fact that no matter how I felt about a man, I was too ugly to be loved; too mannish to be accepted as a lady, but not man enough to wear the mail. People like me aren't suited for love and to be loved. I accepted that fact many years ago... So, Lord Tyrion, I suppose what I'm trying to say is that yes, I do in fact love your brother. Truly. But my fate was decided the moment I came hideous into the world.”

  
Tyrion squeezes her hands in a gesture of support as she rises to her feet. “Please, my lady, don't be so hard on yourself. I know better than most what you've gone through – my mere existence is loathed by most of Westeros, but none so much as by my own blood. Jaime is the only person to have shown me love instead of vexation. Compassion instead of contempt. He bears a good heart. A heart that's been twisted by a monster for far too long.”

  
Brienne gapes at the little lion, flabbergasted.

  
He looks upon her with an almost pleading look in his eyes. “My brother, he's not like those nasty little shits who wronged you simply because you were different. Those nasty little shits aren't worth crying over or damning yourself to a life of loneliness. This I swear to you, Lady Brienne. My brother deserves to feel what it's like to be truly happy, and so much more, free of his toxic other half.”

  
Brienne's chin wobbles in the slightest as she digests Tyrion's plea. “Are you saying...?”

  
“He does, yes. I've no doubt in my mind. But do not expect him to admit it outright. He is as stubborn as he is loyal.”

  
Brienne shrugs free of Tyrion's grasp to stand at the chamber window, her head suddenly spinning. Her hands fall to her sides. She stares long and hard outside at the coming twilight, drawing a shaky breath. “I...I'm sorry, my lord. But I can't. His heart already belongs to this other half you speak of. I cannot come between that, no matter how I feel.” She glances at Tyrion. “Forgive me, my lord, but I'd like to be alone now. Thank you for coming by to see me.”

  
Tyrion nods. “Of course, Lady Brienne. You must still be tired from your journey. If you require anything during your stay here, do not hesitate to call upon me. Anytime. Day or night.”

  
Brienne returns the soft nod, but nothing more, forcing Tyrion to quietly exit the maiden's chambers, the door closing softly behind him.

 

* * *

 

Cersei sits alone in her grand chambers as dusk settles over the capital. She holds a large seashell in her hand, and with it, fond memories of times gone by. She smiles, holding the shell close, only for her reverie to be broken by the soft groan of the door opening.

  
“Cersei.”

  
She knows that husky voice all too well. Yet something about it sounds far different than she remembers. Craven and humbled. She turns at hearing her name called, her jaw falling slack. _Jaime,_ his clothes ragged, hair long and beard full. She gasps, her mouth parting slightly, as bittersweet relief washes over her. _He's alive. He's here. Truly here. And yet..._ Her green eyes trace over his every detail...only to stop upon noticing that he has been maimed, his stump in a sling around his neck. A sudden, acrid taste blankets her mouth, her relief in seeing him in the flesh overtaken by the sickening sight of his maiming. Cersei can't help but feel repulsed, scorned, angry and betrayed at the sight of this new Jaime Lannister, his blue eyes looking upon her, pitiful, weak, and devoid of the fire that once burned for her and only her.

  
She is cold in her pleasantries. “You're late.”

  
Jaime becomes incensed upon hearing his sister's cold greeting, if he could in fact call it such. He steps down the stone stairs, striding towards her with purpose and grasping the end of his stump. “You're unbelievable, do you know that? I've spent the better part of a year rotting in my own filth whilst chained up like some rabid cur; I _murdered_ people to get back to you, and lost the best part of me along the way!”

  
Cersei stands to fetch her pitcher of wine and goblet. Pours herself a glass, only to consume it with deliberate slowness. Truth be told, she does so out of spite and relish; watching her fervent brother festering within his own misery pleases her more than even the thickest cock ever could.

  
Jaime rushes to her, his blue eyes smoldering, and reaches to rip the chalice from her lips. “Stop drinking and talk to me, you spiteful woman!”

  
Cersei regards him with cold contempt, her voice flat and accusatory. “You want to talk? Let's see: you started a brawl in the streets with Ned Stark and disappeared from the capital; my husband died in a tragic hunting accident--”

  
Jaime's reply drips with sarcasm. “It must have been _so_ traumatic for you – pardon me while I shed a tear for you!”

  
Cersei continues. “My only daughter was traded like livestock and shipped off to Dorne; we suffered through a siege--”

  
“A rather short siege,” Jaime clarifies.

  
Cersei's brows furrow together with mild annoyance. “Will you shut up and let me speak, you petulant child. Though it was a short siege, I did not expect to survive it. While you were busy embarrassing our family by getting captured – _you_ , supposedly one of the greatest swordsmen in the Seven Kingdoms – by Robb Stark, Father was doing right by his family and his people by saving our skins when all hope seemed lost. Even that wretched little monster we're forced to call our brother did his duty and fought for our House. And what were you doing, dear Jaime? Sitting chained up in a pen, reeking of your own failure. And now I'm marrying my eldest son to a wicked little bitch from Highgarden!”

  
It is all Jaime can do to keep himself from hitting her in rage and disgust. He may be a Kingslayer, an Oathbreaker, and Man Without Honor, but one thing he wasn't was a beater of women. So he steels himself, knowing the dangerous impulse will ebb itself out in time. “You've changed.”

  
“No, my dear brother. _Everything_ has changed. You come back after all this time with no apologies and one hand and expect everything to be the same?”

  
Jaime looks at her in disbelief. “What do you want me to apologize for? You think I _wanted_ to be taken prisoner? I left the capital to get our baby brother back! _That_ is what family does, sister! The pride protects one another. _That_ is how the pride survives! Yet both you and Father shit all over Tyrion as if he's just another lowborn bastard!”

  
Cersei rebuffs him. “I don't know what you wanted. Nor do I care. All I know is that you left me alone. Forced me into the arms of other men and to drink myself cock-eyed. All because you abandoned me.”

  
Jaime is taken aback by his sister's admission, feeling as if he may vomit all of a sudden, for Cersei's admission is a tandem attack to his heart and gut; though he'd kissed Brienne after the ordeal at Harrenhal, he did not bed her at any time during their journey from Harrenhal to King's Landing, for his heart belonged to Cersei. As he grapples with the revelation, however, Jaime soon wishes he had followed the _true_ callings of his heart and pursued Brienne, rather than cling to the withered heartstrings of Cersei's poisoned heart.

  
“I don't _believe_ you.” Jaime turns his back to Cersei to begin for the chamber doors. The lioness continues to drink her wine, unapologetic. She watches Jaime standing before the door. He looks over his shoulder, brushing the fallen strands of hair from his view. “When you miss me, remember when you had me...it wasn't enough. When you remember me, I pray the memories turn to ashes in your mouth, strangle you, and feast upon your tears.”

 

* * *

 

Still reeling from Cersei's heartless abandonment of him and everything they once were, Jaime meets with his father inside his chambers in the Tower of the Hand, after a quick bath and shave.

  
Lord Tywin, always one to shun small talk, gets straight to the point regarding their meeting, and presents his eldest son with a gift. The blade is unlike anything Jaime has ever seen, heavy in his undisciplined left hand, yet still lighter than a longsword made of traditional steel, its lines and tip sharp. Even in dying sunlight, the Valyrian steel shimmers with an almost mystical light, as does its gold hilt adorned with two lion heads on each end of the crossguard and another on the pommel. The sword strikes a seemingly perfect balance of power and beauty; it is a sword fit for a hero. _Alas_ , Jaime thinks to himself, still tracing his eyes along its every ornate detail, _it is thus_ _wasted on me._ Jaime, somehow, manages to take his eyes off it long enough to look at his father. “She's magnificent... Looks fresh forged – but where did you get this much Valyrian steel? No one has made a Valyrian steel sword since the Doom of Valyria.”

  
Tywin nods. “Indeed. And if you must know, I acquired the steel from someone no longer in need of it.”

  
Jaime resumes inspecting it with keen interest. “You've wanted one of these in the family for a long time.”

  
“And now we have two.”

  
Jaime cocks an eyebrow, his interest piqued. “ _Two_?”

  
“The original weapon was absurdly large. More than enough steel for two swords,” Tywin replies. “The other is to be a gift for my grandson when he comes of age.”

  
“It's glorious,” Jaime responds. “Thank you.” He cocks his brow suddenly, having belatedly registered his father's mention of his grandson. “Father, do correct me if I'm wrong, but Joffrey is already of age. Surely the other is to be his sword, is it not?”

  
Tywin scoffs. “Though Joffrey is king, he is about as worthy of wielding a blade as that abomination you call a brother.”

  
Jaime bristles at Tywin's mention of Tyrion, but holds his tongue.

  
“You cannot serve in the Kingsguard one-handed; perhaps you could if it had been your weaker hand that had been lost. But that is not the case.”

  
“Where is that written? I can and I will!” Jaime rebukes. “The oath of the Kingsguard is for life!”

  
The elder Lannister regards his eldest son with calm stoicism. “The war is over. The king is safe. Other knights protected the king while you were a prisoner – they will continue to do so even after you've returned home.”

  
“Home? My home is here in the capital.” Jaime protests.

  
Tywin's reply is adamant. “You will return to Casterly Rock and rule in my stead; you will marry a suitable woman and sire Lannister heirs.”

  
“ _You_ are the Lord of Casterly Rock,” argues Jaime.

  
“ _I_ am Hand of the King. My place is here. I do not expect to see The Rock again before I die.”

  
Jaime's ruggedly handsome face twists into one of scorn. “Do you know what they call me? Kingslayer. Oathbreaker. A Man Without Honor. And yet you're asking me to break yet _another_ sacred vow!”

  
Tywin remains calm. “You wouldn't be breaking anything. There is a precedent to relieve a member of the Kingsguard of his duties; the king will exercise that prerogative.”

  
Jaime stiffens his jaw, about to protest, still angry from his fall out with Cersei, when he stifles himself. His thoughts drift to his brother and Brienne; Cersei loathed Tyrion's mere existence ever since the day he'd been born and like their father, blamed the dwarf for their mother's death, as she died while giving birth to him. Jaime knew this. He also knew that the moment he departed for Casterly Rock without his baby brother, Cersei would promptly execute him as an act of revenge for what he'd supposedly done to their mother, even though Cersei nor Lord Tywin had any proof.

  
The situation was dire for Brienne as well, for should Cersei ever discover the kiss her brother and the maiden shared... Jaime knew all too well of his twin sister's vindictive demeanor; she was also susceptible to extreme bouts of jealousy – he recalls a time when they were adolescents and Cersei, having discovered her friend had a crush on him, blatantly pushed the girl down a well, where she died on impact.

  
 _They are both as good as dead if they stay here..._ “I have my own terms if I am to agree to this arrangement.” Jaime eventually announces.

  
“You may state them, but do not expect me to grant them outright.” Tywin replies.

  
Jaime sheathes his new blade into the scabbard on his right hip, his left hand grasping the ornate hilt. He begins to pace. “If I am to return to Casterly Rock, it will not be alone--”

  
Tywin scowls. “Your sister is prohibited from accompanying you.”

  
Jaime still paces. “Not her. You will allow for Tyrion and Lady Brienne to accompany me; I will wed her and produce the Lannister heirs you desire. These are my terms. Should you deny them, then I will stay in the Kingsguard.”

  
“It seems your time away has forced you to mature beyond that of a glorified bodyguard. And it only took forty years and you losing your sword hand to realize it,” Tywin rebukes with a slight grin. “...Very well. I accept your terms. You will depart after King Joffrey's wedding to Lady Margaery of House Tyrell, approximately two fortnights from now.”

  
Jaime acknowledges his father with a subtle nod before dismissing himself.

  
His only hope now is that both Brienne and Tyrion agree to his terms as well...

 

 

 


	5. The Dangerous Game Begins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime reveals the terms of his arrangement to Brienne.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter will be a bit shorter compared to the last chapter. Once again, thank you to all who have commented or left kudos. Seriously, keep it up my lovelies. Comments give me life and encouragement <3

Jaime walks with purpose to Brienne's chambers, his stomach in knots in anticipation of what is waiting for him beyond her chamber door. But knowing Cersei like he does, an uneasy stomach is the least of his problems at the moment. While he may have been foolhardy in his decision to take Casterly Rock and speak for Brienne without her consent, Jaime can only hope the Maid of Tarth is able to listen to reason and understand the repercussions should she decline his arrangement. As he rounds the corner and comes to a stop at her door, however, Jaime prepares himself for the inevitable ass-chewing he's about to receive courtesy of one very pissed off Brienne of Tarth.

  
His knock is brisk. “Wench? Are you decent?”

  
Heavy footsteps, the sound of boots on stone. The door opens. Brienne stands before Jaime, clad in a long tunic, cobalt in color – _Blue is a good color on you, my lady. Goes with your eyes,_ Jaime muses to himself despite his nervousness – and adorned with the sigil of House Tarth. Hastily embroidered, but the trademark crescent moons and suns are still easily recognizable. “Ser Jaime.” Brienne greets him with mild surprise before holding the door open. “Please, do come in.”

  
“Much obliged, my lady.” Jaime replies before stepping inside. “Your attire is new.”

  
Brienne allows a gentle smile to grace her features in spite of the rouge threatening to flush her cheeks. “Yes. The seamstress was kind enough to adorn it with Tarth's crest. Although, she kept apologizing for the way it came out.” Brienne and Jaime share a chuckle at this before Brienne moves the conversation forward, suddenly feeling awkward. “But something tells me you didn't come here to discuss clothing...”

  
Jaime clutches the hilt of his sword out of instinct and, atypical for him anyway, nervousness. “Though I mention it only in passing, you are indeed correct. That's not what I came here to talk to you about.” He draws a stabilizing breath. “What I'm about to tell you is the complete and honest truth. Of this you have my word.” Rather than tell her some long-winded tale about the intricate details of his past trysts, however, Jaime opts to cut to the chase simply because he feels as if he might swallow his own tongue. Or, with the warrior-maiden looking quite ravishing in this moment, bring dishonor to Brienne by uncouthly bedding her before marriage. Either way, he decides to spare her the formalities. “I met with my father earlier, and now that I've returned to King's Landing, he believes it is time for me to take his place as Lord of Casterly Rock.”

  
“Lord of Casterly Rock? But that would mean surrendering your duty to the Kingsguard.”

  
Jaime nods. “Yes. But considering my new circumstances,” he nods to his stump, “he was probably right when he told me a one-handed man cannot properly serve... To that end, we settled upon an arrangement.” He moves to grasp her big pale hand and leads them both to the bed. “I think it's best if we sit, my lady.” _You do far less damage sitting..._ , Jaime tells her within the quiet of his thoughts before plopping himself down to sit, pulling Brienne down alongside him. His gaze never leaves hers as she settles herself. “In addition to becoming Lord of Casterly Rock, my father was rather adamant that I betroth a suitable woman and sire Lannister heirs...” He utters a long-winded sigh, “...So I agreed to his terms, under the condition that I am able to return home with my brother...and you.”

  
Brienne looks at him with a puzzled look on her handsome face, a look that immediately tells him he's officially gone mad. Yet Jaime can't help but find it endearing all the same. “Me? Why me?” the maiden asks while trying her hardest to not blush.

  
“Oh...!” Brienne suddenly erupts, pouncing to her feet with her hands clenched into white-knuckled fists. Jaime can feel her anger as it resonates from her imposing form, and he suddenly wonders if he'll make it out of this room alive. “Jaime, why in Seven Hells would you _do_ such a thing – and _without_ my consent?!” She turns her back to him, livid and unable to look at him out of fear of acting on her impulse to do something she knows she will regret later. She fills her lungs with a few deep, slow breathes to still herself. “...And what about your other half? The woman I keep hearing rumors about, what would she think of this?”

  
Jaime doesn't pursue her, allowing the fiery lady-knight a wide berth. “I know no amount of groveling will right the wrong I have committed, my lady. I should have discussed this with you beforehand. But I did not do this to spite you or bring you dishonor. Of this you have my word. I agreed to this arrangement to protect you.”

  
Brienne whirls around, brow furrowed in anger and wearing a snarl on her face. “ _Protect_ me? I am a warrior, I do not require the shield of men!”

  
Jaime is blunt in his rebuke, “While I have no doubt of that, you will require it should my sister see you as a threat to everything she holds dear.”

  
Brienne eases up a bit. “What in Seven Hells are you talking about?”

  
Jaime stands, yet is still mindful of Brienne's space. “The other half you mentioned, the rumors...it's all true. I am guilty of being a sister-fucker. Uncouth as that may sound. There was a time when she was my whole world, a time when my heart beat only for her. Even so, Cersei has always been a vile creature whose envy and cunning know no bounds – if she even so much as suspects someone of betraying or wronging her, she will stop at nothing until the threat has been vanquished, preferably in the cruelest way possible. The thing you must know about my sister is that she does not utilize sword and mace to slaughter her opponents. Her power stems from her words. And should she discover the kiss we shared, her wrath upon you will be terrible and just. I...” His eyes fall closed as a sigh escapes him, “I cannot lose you, Brienne. That is the truth.”

  
They share a moment of heavy silence; Jaime gazes upon the Maid of Tarth, her sapphire blue eyes no longer smoldering with the fury of a tempest. But nor are they serene. He watches as her chin twitches, which he knows to mean she's desperately trying to keep something inside, and smiles to himself, finding the gesture endearing and uniquely Brienne. Finally, “Cersei... Do you still love her?” Brienne asks.

  
It doesn't take Jaime long to voice his response, his voice firm and sincere. “Though she is still my blood, no. No longer in that way. She made sure of that by willingly admitting to laying with others while I was away, then had the stones to blame me for her lechery and promptly set the bridge ablaze. I didn't stick around to watch it bur--”

  
Before Jaime can finish, Brienne's lips are upon him, trembling and awkward, her strong hands cupping his rugged face with a gentleness that is entirely Brienne. Jaime's cheeks hollow for a brief moment as he returns the kiss before pressing the attack with the introduction of his tongue into the slick warmth of her mouth. Brienne murmurs against him, pleasure filling her, as his tongue wrangles with hers, the feeling of which sparks a jolt through her entire body and ignites her every nerve. “Ser Jaime...,” she gasps between Jaime's probing of her mouth with his tongue. To her horror, Brienne can feel herself slowly losing control over herself and the nigh impenetrable wall she's maintained around herself for moons. From the coarseness of his facial stubble, the slow dancing of their lips and tongues and teeth, to the sensual comfort of Jaime's fingers combing through her pale blonde hair... Brienne can feel herself surrendering to all of it.

  
“Titles are not needed, wench. Here, with you, I am just Jaime,” he replies, breathless, before resuming his exploration of her, this time lapping hungrily at her strong neck.

  
Brienne, much to the young lion's chagrin, abruptly pulls back panting with a sheepish look upon her face. “I'm sorry, Ser Jaime. I do not know what came over me,” she tells him suddenly, with a strong blush to her cheeks. “It won't happen again.”

  
Jaime's arms encircle her trunk, thick and firm like that of a great tree, and hold her tight. He lays his head upon her strong shoulder, the fingers of his left hand against the back of her head, combing through her soft blonde hair. “Try as we both might, I've grown tired of the denial, Lady Brienne. I knew I was fucked the moment I first laid eyes upon you, you great, beautiful beast of a woman.” He looks upon her face, guiding her in such a way that their foreheads touch; Jaime nuzzles the tip of her nose with his own. “Come with me to Casterly Rock, my lady. There I will be yours, and you will be mine, loyal and true. For the rest of our days.”

  
At such close proximity to him, Brienne can feel Jaime's wisps of warm breath brush across her face. The look behind his cerulean eyes lacks jeering and japing. Only sincerity is contained within, and a promise to cherish her for as long as he is able to draw breath upon the mortal coil. Yet she is uncertain of...so many things. Her father, Lord Selwyn, would not take too kindly to this arrangement, if only for the fact that Jaime was not only a vile Lannister, but a Kingslayer and Man Without Honor, and Brienne knew there was to be no altering his long-held conviction no matter what. People only saw what they wanted to see. Vile Lannisters, honorable Starks, usurper Baratheons, conqueror Targaryens... Brienne wonders how people will see her should she become a member of the Lannister Pride... But one look into Jaime's eyes is enough to tell her, perhaps, what she's known her entire life:

  
The day she donned the man's mail was the day she stopped striving to please others, to follow a path unbecoming of who she was at her core. And she would not stop. Not today. Not ever.

  
 _People will whisper. They will make their jokes, 'tis nothing I haven't heard before. Let them_ , the maiden thinks to herself before returning the nuzzle to Jaime's nose, her hand cupping his face. “I accept your proposal, Ser Jaime of House Lannister. I pledge my life to yours. I will shield your back, keep your counsel and give my life for yours if need be.” she vows. “But should you ever speak for me without my consent ever again--”

  
A grin flashes across Jaime's face before he rushes in to claim her lips once more. “Pace yourself, my lady. Save the dirty talk for our wedding night.” he suggests with an impish grin before a gentle knock is heard at the door. Jaime steps away to answer it. A handmaiden, holding a tray of food and drink. Jaime steps aside to allow the servant entry into the room. “Lady Brienne,” Jaime tells her with a slight nod before excusing himself.  
  


 

* * *

 

Cersei, in the midst of another fervent rendezvous with The Mountain himself, growls in anger at the sound of a knock upon her chamber doors some time later. She gestures for Gregor to cease, if only for a moment, and grudgingly leaves him to fetch her lavish red and gold robe and answer the door.

  
“What is it?” she asks, trying to mask her irritation behind a calm facade.

  
“Queen Regent. I bring news that concerns you.”

  
“Can it not wait until morning?” Cersei asks, eager to get back to her tryst.

  
“I'm afraid not. It requires your utmost attention.”

  
Cersei briefly looks behind her shoulder at the massive beast of a man laying naked in her bed, his cock rigid and slick. “Fine. See yourself in. But if I find out you spoke of what you witnessed here, I'll have you strangled in your sleep.”

  
The handmaiden sees herself inside. Cersei promptly shuts the door and locks it...

 

 

 

 

 


	6. Cold as Ice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa Stark makes her first appearance; Jaime and Brienne discuss their next move; Brienne offers her condolences to the young Lady Stark, only to have them blow up in her face; Sansa is pursued by a mysterious man from her past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Greetings, my lovelies! How about a round of applause for Mr. Peter Dinklage on his winning of the Emmy for "Supporting Actor in a Drama Series"! Alas, though I adore you Peter, I was truly rooting for Nikolaj ;) Seriously though, the fact that Peter won is all good. I'd also like to give my congrats to the cast and D&D for their win for Best Drama Series -- Gwen, honey, you looked FABULOUS! <3 
> 
> Whew! Okay! Now that that's out of the way, apologies in advance if I wrote Sansa a bit *too* salty here. Please bear with both me (for my lack of experience in the fandom) and Sansa as we navigate this time of change. Lol. 
> 
> Oh, and prepare yourself for Braime feels.

As a young girl growing up in Winterfell, Sansa Stark often dreamt of one day visiting the capital and marrying her knight in shining armor and becoming a regal Queen like Cersei Lannister. Once her wish to visit the capital came true, however, her idyllic dream quickly turned into a nightmare from which she could not escape – her father, Lord Eddard Stark, executed before her very eyes; becoming the object of King Joffrey's demented mind games and sadistic whims; becoming a pawn in House Lannister's game of conquest by being forced into marriage with the imp, Tyrion Lannister. And now she could add yet another piece to this perpetual nightmare puzzle – the murder of her older brother and King in The North, Robb Stark, and her mother, Lady Catelyn Stark.

  
She had received word via raven two days ago. They had been brutally murdered, along with Robb's pregnant queen-wife, Tallisa, Robb's direwolf Grey Wind, and the majority of Robb's bannermen and men-at-arms, during the wedding feast of Edmure Tully and Roslin Frey, an event that would forever be known as the Red Wedding. To add further to the younger Lady Stark's already unbearable grief, the bodies of Robb and Catelyn had been heinously desecrated afterwards.

  
Sansa sits in the garden of the Red Keep with her handmaiden, Shae, and husband Tyrion, staring at the plates of food scattered about the table. Pigeon pie. Cheeses. Wine. Bread. Sweets, lemon cakes among them. Sansa is deep within herself, wrought with grief. So much so that she doesn't even hear Shae's gentle calls that she try to eat something. Not even the delectable sweetness of lemon cakes is enough to pull the young woman from her misery.

  
Tyrion, in a gesture of compassion, gently takes hold of his wife's hand before looking to Shae. “Forgive me, but if I could have a moment alone with my wife.”

  
“Tell Lady Sansa she needs to eat,” Shae reminds him before sauntering off.

  
Sansa continues to stare off into nothingness. “My lady, you need to eat; I cannot let you starve yourself. As your husband, I swore to protect you,” Tyrion explains before once again offering her a slice of hearty pigeon pie. And once more, Sansa bitterly refuses. “Please, let me help you, Lady Sansa.”

  
“How can you help me?” Sansa replies, her voice full of defeat. “Nobody can help me.”

  
Tyrion shrugs.”I don't know. But I can try all the same.”

  
Sansa takes the diminutive man into her sight, her blue-green eyes devoid of life. “...I lay awake at night, staring at the canopy, thinking about how they died...” she confides to him, on the verge of fresh tears.

  
“I could get some essence of nightshade to help you sleep,” Tyrion offers.

  
Sansa continues, having tuned out the little lion. “Do you know what they did to my brother? How they sewed his direwolf's head onto his body? And my mother? They cut her throat to the bone and threw her body in the river as if she were mere trash."

  
Tyrion draws a breath only to sigh. “...What happened to your family was a terrible, awful crime, my lady. I didn't know your brother; he seemed like a good man – a noble man -- but I didn't know him. Your mother, on the other hand, I admired her. I knew her. She wanted to have me executed, but still I admired her. She was a strong, noble woman, and she was fierce when it came to protecting her children. Sansa, your mother would want you to carry on. We both know it's true."

  
Sansa gazes upon him, uncomfortable. “Will you pardon me, my lord?” she asks before getting up. “I would like to visit the Godswood.”

  
Tyrion nods in acknowledgment. “Of course, of course. Prayer can be most helpful, I hear.”

  
Sansa, already up and ambulatory, briefly stops to look back at Tyrion, her hands clasped together in front of her. “I do not pray anymore, my lord,” she informs him with dejection. “It's the only place I can go where people don't talk to me.”

  
Tyrion swallows the lump in his throat, wanting to say or do something – anything – to bring his wife even the smallest bit of comfort. Despite this, he lets her go all the same, respectful of her space.

  
Alone, he pours himself a chalice of wine from the flagon.

 

* * *

 

“There she is.”

  
“Yes, there she is... And?”

  
Brienne and Jaime stand poised at a lookout point surveying the Godswood, observing Lady Sansa from afar as she sits alone, careful to keep their voices down, lest Sansa discover them and become suspicious.

  
“Need I remind you we both made a promise to her mother, to keep her daughters safe?” Brienne replies, her elbows resting atop the weathered stone barrier.

  
“Well, Arya Stark hasn't been seen since her father was killed. Where do you think she is? My money is on dead.” Jaime retorts. “There's a certain...safety in death, wouldn't you say? And according to my brother, Sansa Stark is now Sansa Lannister. Bit of a complication.”

  
Brienne looks at him in disbelief. “A complication, as you call it, does not release you from a vow.”

  
Jaime's brow furrows into a quizzical frown. “What do you want me to do? Kidnap my sister-in-law? And take her where? Where would she be safer than here?” he asks.

  
Brienne regards him with a stern look on her face. “You said so yourself – that your sister is a threat to me and your brother. And now with Lady Sansa having been betrothed to him, she is _also_ in danger. Look me in the eye and tell me that you think she'll be safe here.”

  
Jaime is unable to do so despite his best efforts. “Godsdamn you, loathsome wench.” he replies behind mock admonishment before gazing long and hard at his beloved. “Are you sure we're not related? Ever since my return here, it seems like every Lannister I've encountered has been a miserable pain in my ass.” he snickers before stealing a quick kiss from her.

  
Brienne quickly repels from him, eyes wide. “Are you mad? Not here, you fool.” she reproaches before wiping her lips with the back of her big hand.

  
Jaime wears a sultry look upon his face. “I am mad only for you, Lady Brienne. Gods give me the strength to keep from laying with you before the wedding.”

  
Brienne blushes a pale crimson. “Keep it up and there won't be a wedding, my dear Jaime – we'll both be rotting in the ground courtesy of your spiteful sister.”

  
Jaime grins, one eyebrow cocked with curiosity. “Did you just call me 'dear'? I must say, that sounds much better than when you oft referred to me as Kingslayer when we first met.”

  
The maiden can only glare at him. “ _Sansa_ , Ser Jaime – _Sansa_ is what matters right now.”

  
The knight clears his throat. “Ah, yes. Just got caught up in the moment is all. All right. Sansa – if I know you as well as I suspect, I would surmise that that foolhardy mind of yours is already thinking about what to do next...” He trails off; a long, pregnant pause fills the air. Then, “And the answer is yes, as my soon-to-be lady-wife commands.”

  
Brienne stars at him, gawking. “What? But I didn't even...” she says out loud, more to herself than in response to Jaime.

  
Jaime grins at her, smug. “See? Like an open book, wench,” he tells her. “I concede that it's only right that Lady Sansa, as my brother's wife, accompany us to Casterly Rock. However, I worry there's a chance she may not take kindly to such an arrangement. The Starks and the Lannisters haven't had the warmest history, as you probably well know.”

  
Brienne's face glazes over with determination. “I'll talk to her. Stay here.”

  
Jaime perks up, listening intensely once Brienne is below him with Sansa in the Godswood. The ocean waves slosh against the coastline, making it hard for the knight to hear.

  
Brienne graces Lady Sansa's presence, cordial and respectful, hands behind her back, her posture tall and proud. “Lady Sansa. Please pardon me for interrupting your time of prayer. I am Brienne of Tarth, and I would like to offer you my deepest sympathies on the loss of your brother, Robb Stark, and your mother...” It's all Brienne can do to keep from losing her composure. “Lady Catelyn.”

  
The young Stark lifts her head to stare at Brienne over her shoulder. Her usually crisp blue-green eyes are bloodshot, her cheeks red and stained with fallen tears. “...I know who you are. My mother told me about you in her letters. Said you held an honor and strength in your heart befitting of your great stature.”

  
Brienne feels her heart twist upon registering Sansa's remarks on her mother's behalf. “Your mother was fierce when it came to protecting her children and doing what was right. Courageous – not battle courage, perhaps, but a woman's kind of courage. I would have done anything to protect her.”

  
Sansa sniffs the salty ocean air. “So why didn't you?” she asks with a sliver of bitterness.

  
Brienne is caught off guard. “I...”

  
The young woman is glaring now, eyes spiteful and full of pent up anger, frustration, and pain. “You swore an oath at my mother's feet to shield her back, keep her counsel, and give your life for hers if need be – yet she lies naked at the bottom of a river, her throat slit to the bone, and here you stand before me with the nerve to lie to my face and tell me you would have given _anything_ to protect her?!”

  
In the distance, Jaime watches with concern at the sudden, volatile shift in the conversation.

  
Brienne attempts to salvage the fragments of her broken thoughts. “My lady, had I known of your mother's plans to attend the wedding, I would have accompanied her as her Sworn Sword, no questions asked. Instead, she charged me with returning Ser Jaime Lannister to King's Landing in the hopes of securing your and Arya's safety – I swear it by the Old Gods and the New.”

  
Though she is but a young woman still, Sansa wields a power of a noblewoman twice her age, able to silence Brienne with a simple lift of her hand, much in the same way as her mother did when she insisted people stop talking. “I do not care what you swore, Lady Brienne. As far as I'm concerned, I hold you just as culpable in the deaths of my mother and brother as I do the Freys and the Boltons. Somehow, I will get justice for them – and yours will be one of the first heads to roll.”

  
Thunderstruck, Brienne can do nothing but watch as the young Stark, savage in her reprimand, storms off, leaving her there to scrounge for the shattered remains of her honor.

  
Meanwhile, an aghast Jaime follows Sansa with his eyes as she winds her way up the twisting cobblestone pathway, disappearing briefly behind the thick shrubbery before reemerging on the other side and continuing towards him, the tail of her gown dancing in the sudden breeze. Jaime scowls at her, having heard everything between her and Brienne, as she passes by, acknowledging him with an equally cold contempt. Yet Jaime decides against his more impulsive judgment to hold his tongue, for Brienne's sake. He hopes his eyes are doing enough in getting the message across to the grieving, but still belligerent, Stark.

  
Once she's far from his view, Jaime makes haste for Brienne as she sits on the bench, her broad shoulders slumped and brooding, where Lady Sansa had been sitting only moments earlier. Once he is with her, the Lion of Lannister, not giving two shits about the fact that he is doing so in a public space, consoles the lady-knight with a comforting arm around her shoulders. Still, he doesn't mince his words when it comes to his observations on Brienne's talk with Sansa. “I accept the fact that she is grieving, and what happened to her family was unjust, but that does not give her the right to put equal blame on you, Brienne,” he explains before kissing the top of her head. “None.”

  
“But she is right, Ser Jaime. I did fail Lady Catelyn. I swore to keep her safe, and I failed to uphold that oath.” Brienne replies, her composure on the precipice of breaking.

  
Jaime tilts her head to face him. Her eyes are wet. “My lady, I know I'm not fit to preach but, if there's anything I've learned in my time as a knight, it's that there are so many oaths we're sworn to live by and uphold. Defend the King, obey the King, protect the innocent, defend the weak. It's too much. No matter what you do, you're forsaking one vow or another. It's impossible to stay true to them all. All we can do is uphold them as best we can, and not put blame on ourselves when one falls through the cracks. Do you understand?”

  
Brienne, unable to answer him, buries her face into Jaime's strong shoulder, as she feels something give way within her – tears of anguish, fueled by her inability to protect Lady Catelyn, Sansa's harsh words, and feelings of inadequacy – this being her second loss after Renly – stem from her eyes; in spite of her pain, she can't help but thank the Seven that Jaime is here with her, and the strength of his shoulder is there to mask the brunt of her pain. But there is a certain comfort, she notices, to being vulnerable in the arms of the one you love, and a certain strength to be gained from it. And so she allows herself to be vulnerable, to cry, to relieve herself of the terrible burden within her heart, for she knows she is doing so in the arms of the man she loves.

  
Jaime doesn't utter a word for the next few long moments, opting to hold Brienne and allow her to cry in silence while his gestures do his talking for him – kisses to her slicked back crown of pale blonde hair, the tip of her ear; rubbing her back in a slow motion with his stump while he caresses the back of her strong neck with his hand. Eventually, she lifts her head from his shoulder, now stained with her tears, and thanks him with a passionate kiss to his lips.

  
“The things I do for love,” he smiles before coming to his feet and offering her his hand. He grins when she declines his offer to help her up. “So stubborn... I wouldn't have you any other way.”

 

* * *

 

On her way back to the Red Keep and still seething from her meeting with Brienne of Tarth, Sansa is soon startled when she comes upon a dead end in the courtyard only to turn around and discover that she's been followed for an unknown amount of time by a ragged-looking man dressed in swarthy clothes and reeking of wine, his brown hair and beard unkempt. “Ease, ease. Lady Sansa,” he tells the frightened young woman, his hands raised in a gesture of peace. “I do not wish to harm you. Rather, I wish to thank you for saving my life from King Joffrey. Wretched little tyrant.”

  
Sansa looks at him hard, mulling him over in her thoughts. Eventually, it clicks. “Ser Dontos, of House Hollard? Is that you?”

  
Ser Dontos nods. “Aye, my lady. It warms my heart to see you alive.”

  
Sansa regards him with kindness. “As it does mine, Ser Dontos.”

  
Dontos takes a cautious step forward, his hand grasping at the pouch on his belt. “A gift for you, my lady, for saving my life.”

  
Sansa is presented with a delicate golden necklace adorned with seven small amethyst crystals. “A family heirloom, Lady Sansa. Cherished by my mother and grandmother. And now, it is yours to cherish.” Dontos explains.

  
Sansa gazes at the small crystals as they gleam in the sunlight. “It's beautiful, kind ser. But I simply can't accept it.”

  
But Dontos refuses her protests. “The gift has already been given, my lady. You must.”

  
Sansa holds it close to her chest. “...I will cherish it always, Ser Dontos. Seven blessings to you.”

  
Dontos gives her a kind smile. “And to you, Lady Sansa.”

  
As Sansa begins her backtrack down the lush walkway, unbeknownst to her, Ser Dontos is soon joined by another man, clad entirely in black. “Does she suspect anything?” he asks, his voice low, raspy, and decidedly cunning.

  
“No, not a thing,” comes Dontos' reply. “Lord Baelish.”

  
“Good. Make sure it stays that way.”

 


	7. The Lion and The Maiden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cersei is up to her conniving ways, forcing Brienne to decide between her love for Jaime and her oath to Lady Catelyn, with unexpected results courtesy of one Jaime Lannister.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Greetings my lovelies! Apologies for the lengthy time between the last chapter and getting this one up -- had to get a new keyboard because the other one I bought only a month or so ago stopped working (I'm lookin' at you, Cooler Master...) Happy to say this new one (thank you Corsair!) is amazing (and really comfortable to type on) so I can FINALLY get back to writing, WOO! 
> 
> All I have to say about this chapter is this: it's happening y'all... ;)

After her breakdown in the Godswood, Brienne had politely declined Jaime's offer to return to the Red Keep with him, citing she sill had so much on her mind and needed some time to herself to sort out the obtrusive thoughts. Jaime merely gave her a look of understanding before leaving her to her thoughts and returning to the Red Keep.

  
And so here the Maid of Tarth still sits, having lost track of time while she thought about Sansa and the way the young woman had blown up at her over the vow she had made to Lady Catelyn; how she'd broken it by agreeing to escort that wretched Kingslayer back to his home in King's Landing, when she should have denied such a task in favor of protecting her mother instead. It was an accusation that, although born out of anger and grief, had cut Brienne as deep and precise as the finest Valyrian steel blade. She isn't sure just how much time has passed since Jaime left, just that the sun was getting rather low on the horizon. As she draws a sigh and prepares to stand, however, a decidedly clipped female voice urges her to spare a few minutes of her time and stay where she is.

  
“Your Grace,” Brienne greets with surprise before attempting to curtsy. Cersei, wrapped in a lavish gown spun of the finest crimson fabric and gold embroidery, steels herself as she watches the lumbering maiden, with her hulking form bereft of bosom and gangly arms and legs, fumbling miserably in her attempt to act more becoming of a lady in front of the proper Queen Regent. “Apologies, Your Grace. I never did master the curtsy.” Brienne explains, her pale face heavy with embarrassment.

  
Cersei offers a feint smile before looping her arm through Brienne's, internally appalled by how thick with strength the woman's bicep is beneath the sleeve of her simple cerulean jerkin. “Of course you didn't, for it feels you were far too busy with other acts considered unbecoming of a proper lady,” she tells her before settling down on the Godswood bench. “'When it comes to most men, I can't help but wonder why it is they don the armor and we the gown, when it should be the other way around. Have you ever wondered, Lady Brienne?”

  
Brienne stares out at the horizon. “I suppose not, Your Grace.”

  
Cersei nods with knowing. “But you understand. Though, I suppose knowing such things is second nature to strong women such as ourselves, much like breathing is to the body. Take my brother for instance. Jaime. I understand it was you who brought him back here. Maimed, yes, but alive nevertheless. When he left here, he had not a single craven bone in his body. He was strong and proud, every inch a Lion of Lannister...”

  
Brienne feels a rouge deepen her cheeks as a brief but awkward silence falls over her and Cersei. “...He's different now. Craven and meek, a husk of his former self. It's pathetic, really. Yet he is free to still wear the mail in spite of it all simply because he bears a cock betwixt his legs.”

  
Brienne turns her gaze to the dusty cobblestone beneath her boots, abashedly pawing at the dirt with her foot, suddenly uncomfortable with Cersei's tone of voice that is altogether nonchalant yet dripping with undertones of accusation and insinuation. As Brienne continues to train her gaze to the ground, she can feel Cersei boring a hole through her, her verdant eyes full of spite and envy towards the ugly, brutish maiden from Tarth.

  
“And yet...you love him, don't you?” Cersei asks without the slightest trace of emotion in her voice.

  
Brienne compels herself to meet Cersei's all too judgmental stare. She swallows hard, suddenly unable to think straight much less find her words.

  
Cersei uses Brienne's silence to her advantage. “Let me tell you why that, you great lumbering cow, is a bad idea. You see, by doing that, you are ultimately breaking that foolish oath you swore to Lady Catelyn Stark – what was it again?” Cersei pretends to think for a moment. “Oh yes, that you would return her daughters safely to her. Now, you strike me as the type who is far too honorable for their own good, Lady Brienne. What would Lady Catelyn think of the little crush you harbor for my brother? He is a vile, salacious Lannister after all – Kingslayer, Oathbreaker, Man Without Honor -- despised wherever he roams. Especially amongst those all too honorable, righteous Starks you so dutifully serve. Surely you cannot hope to uphold one vow without breaking another.”

  
After much struggle, Brienne is finally able to once again find her speech. “I do not love Ser Jaime, Your Grace, nor do I serve the Starks – I serve Lady Catelyn alone. And how do you know of the oath I swore to her?” Brienne asks, suspicious.

  
“Oh, you know, word travels fast around here, sweet summer sow,” Cersei replies, her lips curled into that all too fake, condescending smile of hers. “And of course you do not love him, Lady Brienne. For if you truly value your precious honor and oaths, you will forget about Jaime and achieve the task entrusted to you.”

  
Brienne's expression turns solemn as guilt fills her heart. Lady Catelyn would be alive right now if she had just stayed by the elder Stark's side instead of escorting Jaime back here. But that, too, Brienne tells herself, she did for Lady Catelyn as well, as the latter believed it was the only way of getting her daughters back -- a lion for two wolves. While Sansa was for the moment safe here, young Arya's whereabouts were still unknown, and had been ever since her father was executed. There was no telling where the girl was, or if she was even alive. All Brienne knew was that by staying here with Jaime, she was willingly forsaking the promise she'd made to Catelyn. And for Brienne, with so much of her life having been bound by honor and doing what was right, that simply wouldn't do.

  
But Gods, she truly did love Jaime. She knew that now, her heart never having been so full of warmth and acceptance before. Though she had to admit that their relationship had started not on the best of terms, with him taking any opportunity to brutally mock her, something had ultimately changed after the night she'd nearly been raped by Locke and his men. After that night, everything about their relationship had been flipped on its axis, reborn as something different. The beginnings of a friendship and...something more.

  
Yet she knows what she must do -- Brienne comes to her feet, erecting to her full, impressive height, and dusts herself off. “Perhaps you are right, Your Grace. I am doing no good here like this. Arya Stark is out there somewhere, alone. The Realm is no place for a child to be. I will set out come morning, Your Grace. Please give my regards to Ser Jaime.”

  
As Brienne begins up the path, Cersei can't help but to allow a sinister grin to curve her lips, pleased with herself. _That great cow will never come between us again, dear Jaime_ , she thinks to herself before starting up the pathway, back to the Red Keep.

 

* * *

 

Eventually, Brienne returns to her chamber intent on gathering what little she has in preparation for morning, only to discover Jaime waiting patiently for her, dressed in a rich, red leather doublet and brown trousers, sword sheathed and hanging from his hip. “There you are, Lady Brienne. Did you and that sweet sister of mine have a pleasant chat?”

  
Brienne's pale brow furrows ever so slightly. “How do you know of our discussion?”

  
Jaime takes a step forward. “I cannot lie, I overheard everything while going to check on you, as you were gone quite a while after I first left you. I heard every filthy word she told you, and do not believe any of it for a second, Brienne. That is how Cersei operates; of the three of us, Cersei is far more akin to our father than Tyrion or I could ever be -- manipulative to a fault. She sows doubt in order to get what she wants, feeding on the insecurities of others.”

  
“But you cannot deny she made a very good point about me – about us. Honor compels me to fulfill the promise I made to Lady Catelyn – I believe Arya is still out there somewhere. I must find her before it's too late. And I cannot do that if I stay as your wife and mother to your children, Ser Jaime.”

  
Frustration flashes briefly across Jaime's scarred, chiseled face. “Did you not hear a single word I just said, wench? Cersei is a master of manipulation! And you must accept the fact that Arya Stark is more than likely dead – no one has seen even a trace of her since her father's execution. Get this through that bullish skull of yours: while you can no longer protect Arya, you can still fulfill your oath by protecting Sansa. Sansa is _here_ , Arya is not!”

  
Brienne turns her back to Jaime and the almost pleading look upon his handsome face. She rests one big, calloused hand upon the chamber door before closing her eyes. In the silence, she mulls things over in her mind, but her stubbornness eventually rears its altruistic head. “You may be right, but I must try to find Arya all the same. For Lady Catelyn. And for you.”

  
Jaime reaches for her then, his left hand gripping her broad shoulder as a low growl tears itself from deep in his throat before forcibly turning her to look at him.

  
Brienne looks with haste at his big paw upon her shoulder before gazing – her blue eyes big and wide with surprise -- upon his face. “Ser Jaime, what are you?--”

  
Jaime presses himself against her, pinning her against the door with what feels like his entire weight before engulfing her lips with his own, deep and hard. “ _Fuck_ loyalty! _Fuck_ oaths! _Fuck_ anyone who isn't us. I want you – all of you – from this day, to the last of our days – here, with me. Seven help me, I love you, Brienne of Tarth. For all that you are – pigheaded to a fault – I love you; you are more important to me than words, for words are wind – these are your words, Brienne...”

  
Brienne comes from against him, if only for a moment, to gaze long and hard into Jaime's eyes; they're smoldering – for her, for them, for the future – blue and wild, fierce like a lion. She watches as he nuzzles her cheek with a tenderness that betrays the wild nature of his eyes, his hot breath ghosting across her warm flesh: at this, she feels a spark, warm in its existence, kindle within the depths of her belly and with it, the telltale rouge warm her neck and cheeks. Her heart pounds furious beneath her sternum with strange excitement and the slightest hint of trepidation. But most of all, it beats with love for the man before her. A love far deeper and sacred than any oath, for words are merely wind. She'd said so herself.

  
“Ser Jaime...,” she says, her voice soft, before taking him into her arms once more. “Jaime. I...”

  
Jaime nuzzles her cheek again. “Brienne...,” he breathes, his thin lips tracing along the line of her jaw. “Say you'll stay; let me love you...”

  
Brienne runs her fingers through Jaime's shaggy mane as she grapples with herself, the forces of love and honor raging war within her body, mind, and soul. Yet she cannot deny her love for Jaime, for it runs deeper than Houses and honor and oaths. She clutches him then, knowing she cannot run from her feelings forever. Her reply is a mere languid nod before feeling Jaime's hand slip between them to fumble with the laces of her jerkin, only to eventually spread it apart and cup one of her meager breasts in his palm. He bends to take the side of her strong neck into his mouth and laps hungrily at the pale, warm flesh.

  
Jaime ceases but for a moment to take take her nipple, bright pink and aroused, gently between his lips, the feel of her oddly velveteen skin against them sending libidinous tremors down the length of his cock. He feels her body shudder – not in fear but new excitement -- beneath his cautious advances and before long, introduces his tongue, flicking it in and out along her equally pink areola; he hears her murmur his name, breathless, as he continues to trace along the softness of her slight mounds, savoring her, and spurred on by the way his name falls from her lips, clipped, gentle and proper, and the way her fingers comb through his hair, the digits long and limber. “Brienne...,” he grunts with need against her breast, sated if only for a moment before feeling himself suddenly strain against the crotch of his trousers.

  
He stops to gaze upon her. “...Do you trust me?”

  
The maiden meets his gaze. “With my life, Jaime. With everything I am, or will ever be.” she replies.

  
Jaime's fingers trace down the soft peaks and valleys of her muscled abdomen, his eyes still fixed on her. “Then, may I...?”

  
“...What?” she replies before feeling Jaime's hard length against her leg. “O-oh...!” she stammers, her face suddenly a deep shade of Lannister red. “J-Jaime...you're...!”

  
A decidedly impish grin plays across his features. “Yes. For you. And only you. Now. Please.”

  
Brienne attempts to speak -- her mouth opens yet the words do not come; she's never felt a man's sex against her before, much less one so eager as Jaime Lannister's. The thought of laying with a man hasn't crossed her mind in many moons, having died the same day she'd decided to wear the mail and wield a sword. Yet there was still a part of her, buried deep down inside, that longed for that closeness on some level with a man who truly accepted her, mannish appearance and all. Her. Not her House, not the Evenstar nor Evenfell Hall. Her.

  
And that man, she now realizes, is the one standing before her, brutally handsome, at times annoying yet compassionate all the same, his cock against her thigh and stirring for her and only her. Jaime Lannister, the infamous Kingslayer and Man Without Honor. _Perhaps it is true, then_ , she thinks to herself, feeling her chin tremble as she swallows, _we really don't get to choose who we love..._

  
Jaime guides Brienne to the bed, along the way pawing at her open jerkin and she his leather doublet until there's a mix of red and blue garments on the floor at bedside where they soon settle, both as naked as their nameday, before Jaime pivots their bodies in such a way that Brienne is atop him, looking altogether awkward and unsure of herself given the fact that Jaime's erection is a hairs breadth away from her bush of blonde pubes. A mere glimpse of it is enough to make the maiden break out in a fresh shroud of rouge from her chest to her face.

  
Jaime caresses her strong thigh, his gaze tender. “You truly are still maiden. You can't even look upon my cock without blushing. Strange that I somehow find that to be so endearing.” he smiles before sitting back on his elbows. “Perhaps I should be the one to guide us instead?”

  
Brienne feels her chin twitch before she nods in acknowledgment. She soon finds the tables turned, with Jaime now looking down upon her, his manhood hard against her inner thigh. She watches as he first takes her left hand in his, guiding it to rest against his firm ass, only to reach for her right hand and repeat the process. “For equal parts stability and leverage, my love,” he explains before bracing himself with his left arm. He gazes upon her with tenderness. “I will not deceive you, my lady. Since you are maiden, there will be pain and I apologize in advance. I will try to be as gentle as you desire, but forgive me if I am rash in my movements at times. Do you trust me?”

  
Brienne swallows hard, knowing what is about to happen. While she'd often seen the act within the confines of Renly's camp and learned about it from her septa as a youth, seeing it and engaging in it, she knew now, were completely different. There was a certain fear that came with losing ones maidenhead for the first time, she knew that now, her knees and thighs softly quivering. Her septa had told her how painful the first time would be, searing and agonizing as her maidenhead ruptured – no doubt a tactic to discourage highborn ladies from engaging in the act other than for the purpose of procreation – and yet, as she looks upon Jaime, his eyes full of patience, understanding, and love for her and not what she represents, Brienne feels no such fear of the pain to come. “I trust you, Jaime. With all that I am.”

  
A warm smile spreads itself across Jaime's thin lips, his hand reaching to cup Brienne's cheek for a brief moment before taking himself into his left hand. He urges her to spread her legs ever so slightly and with them, the velvety slit of her moist, pink folds, before guiding himself to rest on the cusp of her womanhood. “Can you feel me?”

  
Brienne nods, mentally noting Jaime's thickness between her lips and she wonders for a moment if she will be able to receive him in his entirety.

  
Jaime continues to exercise patience and restraint in spite of the fact that he feels like he will explode at any moment, entering her inch by inch – he's determined to remain as gentle to the maiden as possible, for Brienne is unlike his sister in every way, shape and form; for all that Brienne embodies – strength, loyalty, courage – beneath her intimidating presence she bears the gentlest of souls. “I'm going to push inside you now, Brienne. Breathe, and do not tense.”

  
She does so, as much as she is able, feeling his head spread her first; his shaft inches deeper within her, their gazes trained solely on each other, until it stops its descent. Suddenly, Brienne feels as if she's being pierced by the sharpest of blades, the pain whitehot and blinding. She grunts, eyes pinching shut, knowing that Jaime has just pierced her maidenhead. “Fuck – Jaime!” The swear comes from her involuntarily, rousing a deep blush of embarrassment on her face, neck and chest. “I-I'm sorry, f-forgive me for the vulgarity.”

  
“Now is not the time for apologies, my wench,” Jaime grunts with effort as he thrusts deep inside her; Brienne's walls, perfect and warm, hug him like a glove. As he thrusts, however, Jaime can feel slight resistance in spite of her wetness. “So...tight – are you well, Brienne?” he asks, hoping he isn't causing her more pain than necessary.

  
Brienne spreads her long legs wider, the tearing pain ebbing slowly into memory. “Yes – k-keep going,” she answers before firming up her grip on Jaime's lower back and attempting to match the timing of his body against hers.

  
Jaime grins, aroused by her initiative, while seeking to match her rhythm. The pair move uncoordinated at first, their movements mere seconds apart, but quickly sync up, having now become one body and mind intent on achieving the same goal; as Jaime thrusts, sheathed from tip to base within her, Brienne pushes to meet him, his girth filling her, stretching her, bringing her closer to the precipice.

  
She feels Jaime suddenly stiffen within her, his every muscle contracting, hips buckling, pulse bulging in his neck, only to hear him roar soon afterward, announcing his release, warm within her womb and oddly soothing. Yet Brienne remains to be sated, tipping precariously on the brink.

  
Jaime comes from her, only to bury his face between her quivering thighs and kiss her wet, wide open folds; Brienne feels her hips writhe in response, only to tense upon registering the width of his tongue flicking the hard bulb of her clit. “ _Fuck!_ Jaime!” she hears herself blurt out, again with that suddenly vulgar tongue of hers.

  
Jaime purrs, relishing in the taste of her, himself – them – their combined flavors mingling on his busy tongue as he moves it with deft skill along the entirety of her labia, mindful of her engorged clit. He laps at it, around it, suckles it with the fever akin to a babe feeding from the breast, knowing her climax to be inevitable as her body writhes against his mouth, coiled tight like a spring ready to release... She does then, into his mouth and the tip of his tongue, her taste warm with the slightest bite of tang and musk and uniquely Brienne. With the now-former maiden sated and trembling with the rush of afterglow, Jaime crawls from between her legs to join her in an embrace, her strong arms holding him against her form.

  
Jaime snuggles into her, his eyes heavy and manhood spent. “I know it's a little late for this but I truly didn't mean to defile you before our wedding, Lady Brienne,” he confesses, apologetic, before his tone turns into one of curiosity mixed with reserve. “...We are still set to betroth, yes? Unless of course, you...”

  
He feels Brienne bury her nose into his sweaty hair, only to plant a kiss on his head. “You said it yourself, didn't you? Fuck loyalty?”

  
Jaime chuckles, amused by her choice of word. “Sweet wench, what kind of lady-wife and mother are you to be, with a mouth so uncouth?”

  
“Please Jaime, it is far too late for your petty japing. Hush and go to sleep, my insufferable husband to be,” Brienne counters dully before closing her eyes.

  
Jaime merely grins before he, too, joins her in sleep.

 


	8. The Queen of Thorns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime and Brienne meet with the Queen of Thorns

Rays of gentle golden sun bleed through the curtains of Brienne's bedchamber, casting their soothing warmth upon the mess of tangled legs and bed sheets, and over a pair of slumbering bodies, bare and intertwined. The Lion of Lannister stirs, his eyes still heavy with sleep. He rises before looking around the room, horror suddenly dawning on him as phantoms of countless nights spent with his sister suddenly flood his sluggish mind, rousing it into a frenzy – he has to hurry and leave here, before someone intrudes to discover their blasphemous secret; he rises with the strength of his left arm, looking for his small clothes as his heart leaps frantic in his chest.

  
But a gaze at the woman next to him is enough to both ease his frantic mind and still his racing heart.

  
 _Brienne._ Not Cersei. After the events of last night, she is but a former maiden, her body curled up beneath the sheets covering her from legs to waist, her bare chest rising and falling like a gentle wave. Jaime allows his fingers to brush against her junction of arm and shoulder, hoping his touch is gentle enough not to wake her, yet loving enough to reassure her she isn't alone. Not anymore.

  
And neither is he.

  
Jaime settles back down to the bed, his gaze fixing upon the canopy, thoughts swirling around his mind like heavy fog, of Brienne and their night together, born out of equal parts desperation and desire. And to a certain extent, fear – the fear of never seeing Brienne again should the pull of her moral compass prove to be too much and force her to embark on what Jaime believed to be a futile journey across the realm, in search for young Arya Stark. For Jaime, that moment had been a revelation – an awakening – more so than even the bear pit at Harrenhal, of just how much he'd fallen for Brienne of Tarth. In his mind, Brienne was his last chance at fighting for – and believing in – something greater than himself, lost to him for so many years, twisted by dark influence: the trinity of love, honor, and self. While Locke had taken his hand and sense of worth, it had been Brienne who had restored it, and more.

  
So much more.

  
His gaze shifts from the canopy to Brienne, her back facing him, pale, scarred and strong. He reaches for the slight ridge of her spine, his calloused fingertips tracing it up to the base of her long neck, only to rest within the softness of her pale blonde hair, his memory drifting back to the first time he laid eyes upon her that fateful night as he sat chained to a post inside a barred pen like a feral beast, prisoner of The Young Wolf. She was standing behind Catelyn, ever vigilant, her mannish hand dutifully clutching the hilt of her blade, ready to strike at a moment's notice. Never before had he seen such a brutish and imposing woman; she was a far cry from Cersei's beauty and grace, to be sure. For all that she was, ugly, androgynous, sickly pale, her body brimming with mannish strength, there was no mistaking the ethereal beauty of her eyes the color of sapphires, big, righteous and shimmering.

  
Yet Jaime Lannister never expected anything to emerge from that brief encounter with the ambiguous Brienne of Tarth.

  
And most certainly had not imagined forming a deep friendship and eventual romance with her.

  
He moves to join Brienne from behind, his arms preparing to draw around her waist, when she suddenly wills herself bolt upright, her eyes as wide as saucers and mouth agape as she gulps for air, chest heaving, her flesh an even whiter shade of pale. “No! Please, don't!” she screams.

  
“Brienne? Brienne, what's wrong?” Jaime questions, concerned by the look of sheer terror on her face. The look in the lady-knight's eyes is wild and hyper vigilant, a look Jaime has never seen before. He attempts to reassure her. “Ease, Brienne! Ease! You're safe now, I promise you.”

  
Brienne struggles to calm the sickening terror pounding in her throat. “J-Jaime...?”

  
“Yes, love,” Jaime replies before attempting to reach for her, only to watch her broad shoulders shrink back at his gesture. “What in the Gods names has come over you? You look like you've seen a wraith.”

  
Brienne draws her long arms around herself, her usually strong voice struggling not to crack “I-I have. Not just now, but every night since that night in the woods.”

  
Jaime looks upon her with compassion and knowing. “With Locke.”

  
The former maiden nods, her chin quivering. “Not just that night, but of the nights at Harrenhal; of the day of your departure; of the bear pit; of myself; of the future; of us.”

  
This time, Jaime exercises caution, “Will you allow me to embrace you? ” he asks, arms prepared to encircle her.

  
Brienne acknowledges him with a simple nod before feeling his arms wrap around her. She breathes deep and allows herself to reciprocate by joining in his embrace, her head finding comfort against his shoulder.

  
Jaime's hand finds the back of her head, his fingers combing through her hair whilst his stump remains at his side. “Talk to me. Tell me of these things that haunt you.”

  
“I can't – what will you think of me if I do?” Brienne asks with trepidation.

  
Jaime meets her gaze. “I will think nothing less of you, if that's what you're worried about. Besides, is our bond not built on trust?”

  
Brienne steels herself with a steady breath. “...I keep seeing their faces that night in the woods, silhouettes mostly, but their faces nonetheless; hear them declare their intent; smell them, reeking of travel and lust; their hands assaulting me, forcing me to lay still even as I struggle through my bonds....”

  
Jaime moves to kiss her ear. “Locke tried to rape you after I left for King's Landing, didn't he? That's why you mauled his ear.”

  
He feels her head bob up and down, and holds her tighter. “I am sorry, Brienne. You did well to fight him off, however. Swine is probably dead by now, I would think. And what of the future? Of us?”

  
“You'll think me craven.”

  
“I'm afraid you'll have to try harder than that, my lady,” Jaime snorts. “Is it the wedding? The nuptial feast?” Jaime cocks a brow. “...The bedding?”

  
Brienne blushes. “It is those things and more. I am no lady, Ser Jaime. I do not posses what I would call a woman's courage. Battle courage, perhaps. But when it comes to the pressures and duties of womanhood, I am most craven and ignorant. Ladies are taught to curtsy, how to sew, manners; to be subservient to the wishes of their husband and bear him strong and noble sons -- they are not encouraged to wear the mail nor ride into the heat of battle.” Brienne confesses. “How can I be expected to perform these duties as your wife if I – nor much of Westeros – do not consider myself a proper lady?”

  
Jaime lays down, pulling Brienne to rest atop his chest, her head snuggling beneath his chin. “My father has a saying: _'The lion does not concern himself with the opinions of the sheep.'_ For once, it is something for which I can agree with my father upon. You are no sheep, Brienne, but a lion, and I've known this since the first time I laid eyes upon you, you great, fierce beast of a woman. I do not want you to think I chose to betroth you with the intent of molding you into something you are not; though I will say that you could benefit from brushing up on your more proper mannerisms, if only to be used at court, of course.” He moves to kiss the top of her head. “I do not intend to change you, my lady. Only love you.”

  
Brienne wills her head from beneath his chin, her eyes finding his, skepticism on her face. “What did you just say?”

  
A slight grin curves Jaime's lips. “I do not recall stammering, my wench, but I believe I just told you I love you. Just as you are.”

  
She averts her gaze elsewhere, suddenly feeling great annoyance. “...Do not speak words you do not mean. I know this was all a mistake, an excuse for you to sate your desires.”

  
Jaime cocks a brow, flabbergasted. “What in the Seven Hells are you raving about?”

  
Brienne comes from him, fetching a sheet to cover herself with, her cheeks rosy and brow furrowed with hurt and anger. “Do not play coy with me! Your sister decided to fuck other men in your absence and burn the bridge between you, so you decide to lay with me in order to get back at her!”

  
Jaime is positively confused now. “Have you gone mad, wench? What in the Seven bloody Hells gave you that idea?”

  
Brienne draws her long legs to her chest to hug herself, dejection written as clear as day upon her face. “It is not an idea, it is truth; I am too ugly to love! Only fight! What makes you any different from all the other men who've sneered at me all my life and deemed me unworthy of affection?”

  
Jaime's mouth falls agape, realizing he was guilty of harboring this same prejudice against Brienne the first time he saw her. A woman that big and ugly could never hope to win the affections of another, to be a proper lady... But that was precisely what had attracted Jaime to her in the first place. She was unconventional in ways other than her looks and height; she was a truer knight than he could ever hope to be, with enough compassion in her heart to fill the Seven Kingdoms thrice over. While other highborn ladies were busy dressing in lavish gowns and makeup, Brienne was donning the mail and sword, her fingernails covered in dirt, knuckles bruised and bleeding. Jaime found the contradiction that was Brienne of Tarth damn near intoxicating and sexy in a way that was completely different from all he'd ever known in Cersei.

  
His left hand graces her knee. “People can – and do -- change, Brienne. I am guilty of doing so – and still am. And a lot of it is due to you. While I am not altogether good nor bad, you make me want to strive to be a better man,” he explains before reaching to take her hand into his. “What happened between us last night was not born out of some trivial revenge. If anything, it was born out of my fear of never seeing you again; I know how much duty and honor and oaths run rampant through your veins, and how manipulative my sister can be. And as far as you being too ugly to love? You've resigned yourself to the notion that you are somehow too ugly to love for so long, that you cannot even see it when it is staring back at you, as clear as day.”

  
“W...what are you saying?” stammers Brienne.

  
“Must I spell it out for you, my stubborn wench?” Jaime asks before thumbing her cheek. “Godsdamn it, it's me, Brienne! Me – I'm the one who loves you! Is that so hard to understand?” He moves in to kiss her passionately.

  
Jaime's words and gesture catch the lady-knight off guard, her face red and eyes big with surprise. “You...You're really serious, aren't you?” she muses aloud afterwards.

  
The lion pushes against her, his lips finding hers once more, hoping his actions are enough to speak for him. They fall to the bed, a mess of arms and legs, with Jaime coming out on top of her, his thighs straddling her hips. One look at him, at his rigid cock and smoldering blue eyes, and it doesn't take Brienne long to realize that Jaime, the Golden Son, the Lion of Lannister and now soon to be Lord of Casterly Rock and Lord Paramount of the Westerlands, is truly – deeply – smitten with her and everything she is, or will ever be.

  
Jaime's name falls from her lips and with it, the walls once more around her heart; Brienne surrenders before him, her legs spreading just enough for him to fit between. Jaime slips betwixt them, feeling their strength coil around his waist, serpent-like, before he moves to brush himself teasingly against her folds, feeling her twinge as he does so.

  
She frowns. “Do not be so craven as to tease me in the hopes of hearing me beg!” Brienne rebukes.

  
Jaime grins. “You, beg? Nonsense! Only dogs beg, and you, my soon to be dear lady-wife, are nothing of the sort.” He moves to sheathe himself between her folds before willing his hips into a slow rolling motion, gaze still trained on Brienne's plain face. “I just happen to find you to be so godsdamn irresistible when you're angry,” he adds whilst rocking inside her. “Those trembling lips and chin, the way your cheeks flush, those stormy blue eyes...”

  
“Are you quite finished?” Brienne asks with irritation, craning her neck back as a soft grunt forces itself from her throat. Her back arches -- Jaime is deep within her, every thrust full of eager intent to fill her with every fiber of his mortal being – her hands move to cup Jaime's ass and push him even deeper inside of her. “Jaime – Gods, Jaime! -- I love you, you bloody insufferable man, now shut up and love me!”

  
Jaime continues to rock within her, Brienne's name falling breathless from his parched lips. “I love you too, my fiery, stubborn wench. Move with me slowly... ”  
  


 

* * *

 

Later that afternoon, having spent a good part of the morning holed up inside Brienne's chambers engaging in both passion and bantering with each other, the pair find themselves particularly famished and in need of some fresh air, so Jaime arranges for them to have lunch in the garden right below Brienne's room. While Brienne doesn't deny she is indeed hungry, she is less than keen on spending the afternoon in public with Jaime, given that Cersei's little birds were most likely everywhere watching for even the slightest hint of something being amiss in her perfect little world. And with her supposed to be well and gone far away from King's Landing searching for the other Stark daughter, Brienne didn't feel particularly eager to attract even more attention to herself by being seen with the Lion of Lannister himself.

  
In the end, however, her reluctance wasn't enough to sway Jaime in his decision to dine in the garden, beneath the shade of the lush canopy and warm sunshine. Reluctant she may have been, Brienne wills herself to walk alongside him during their stroll to the garden and be as unassuming as possible, but given her height and build, and the fact that she's walking with Jaime Lannister, his face and eyes aglow with strange vigor, it doesn't take long before the many eyes of the Keep train themselves on her, before the sidelong glances and whispers, before Brienne can hear the soft fluttering of Cersei's little birds as they take flight.

  
Lady Olenna, matriarch of House Tyrell, and her grand daughter, soon-to-be Queen-wife to Joffrey Baratheon, Margeary Tyrell, sit in the garden discussing the wedding when they are soon interrupted by Jaime and his companion, whom Olenna takes an immediate shine to, her wrinkled face covered in a smile from ear-to-ear.

  
“My lady,” Jaime greets before addressing the younger Tyrell. “My lady. May we join you?”

  
Olenna is still smiling, still admiring Brienne with her wise gaze. “Ah, if it isn't the Kingslayer himself, come to grace us with his presence!” she greets in jest before turning her attention squarely on Brienne. “My word. Aren't you just _marvelous_? Absolutely singular!”

  
Brienne keeps her eyes trained upon Olenna and her expression low-key in spite of the fact that she is positively taken aback by the matriarch's comment of sincere praise. “My lady. My lady. I do hope you will pardon Ser Jaime and I for interrupting. My name is Brienne of Tarth.”

  
Olenna and Margeary share a knowing look. “We know who you are, my dear. We've heard all about you. But _hearing_ is one thing – I understand it was you who knocked my grandson into the dirt like the silly little boy he is,” chuckles the elder Tyrell before offering Brienne an empty seat at the bistro table. “Come, child. Sit. You as well, Ser Jaime.”

  
They hold banter over a small feast of duck sausage, cheeses, and breads, paired with the finest Arbor gold wine. Jaime can't stop his mouth from watering at all the succulent-looking foods spread out on the table, their smells wafting into his face, kicked up by the sea breeze. After having subsisted on simple rations for the better part of a year as Robb Stark's prisoner, Jaime had all but forgotten the sights and smells of proper, delicious-looking food. He pours himself a goblet of wine from the pitcher while the ladies serve themselves.

  
“Ser Jaime, I mean no offense, but do you require assistance?” Lady Margaery asks.

  
Brienne looks at him from across the table, remembering their meeting with Roose and how much the man enjoyed watching the wounded lion struggle to feed himself sans his dominant paw. If Jaime asked her for assistance right now, she would, no questions asked. But since she knew him better than that – knowing he could be just as pig-headed as her at times – she only watches him as he politely declines Margaery's offer and sets about the task of cutting his food himself, looking between the women. “Please, don't cease on account of me, my ladies. Besides, in addition to this feast, you all may get lucky and be treated to a show as well, courtesy of me making an utter ass out of myself.”

  
Brienne dabs the corners of her mouth with the napkin before clearing her throat, feeling as if a change in topic is in order. “Lady Margaery, it would ease me to know you accept my condolences on behalf of House Tarth for the loss of King Renly, as I am sure you've heard the rumors by now...”

  
Olenna is quick to hush the broad warrior. “Best to watch your tongue, child. If they catch you speaking ill towards that miserable tyrant Joffrey, no hesitation will be spared in cutting it out of you,” she warns in whispered tone. “And yes, we have heard the rumors concerning you, Lady Brienne. From my grandson, Ser Loras, that craven lout. All lies, I assure you,” Olenna replies, taking a sip from her goblet. Her eyes look upon Jaime, his mouth full of bread. “I understand it was you, Ser Jaime, who urged the lad to hold his tongue, lest Lady Brienne knock him into the dirt yet again?”

  
Jaime downs his bite of food. “Yes it was. While I have no doubt Lady Brienne would have no trouble doing so, I was more concerned about Ser Loras,” he explains before grinning and eyeing Brienne over the brim of the goblet pressed to his lips. “My lady is a most fearsome warrior, and a true knight in everything but title. I've seen it myself, more than once. Ser Loras wouldn't have stood a chance.”

  
Jaime watches with endearment -- Brienne's face is a beautiful, gentle shade of Lannister red.

  
Brienne shifts the discussion back to Renly and her own insecurities. “Ser Jaime is far too kind. Had I been as strong as he claims me to be, I would have been strong enough to protect our king from the apparition who slayed him.”

  
The once amicable atmosphere soon turns heavy and somber. “Joffrey is our king now, my lady,” Margeary corrects with gentle respect. “What is this apparition you speak of?”

  
“I must advise caution, Lady Brienne. The Queen Regent's little birds are everywhere. Are you certain you wish to let your account be known?” Lady Olenna asks.

  
“I will be unable to rest until it is known to those with compassion enough to listen, my lady.” Brienne replies. “As a member of Renly's Kingsguard, I'd sworn to protect him at all times, at any cost. That night as he was preparing to retire, I was removing his armor when the wind suddenly began to howl outside and rouse the threshold. It was then that I witnessed a shadow breech the chamber...”

  
“A shadow?” questions Margeary.

  
“Yes. A wraith, born of darkness, with the face of Stannis Baratheon.”

  
Jaime looks upon her, his face caught between confusion and dread; it's both the first time he's heard her account of what happened that night in Lord Renly's chambers, and the first time he's heard anyone speak of actually having bore witness to the dark entities not even the greatest maesters knew much about.

  
“While I do not doubt your account, Lady Brienne, I can only tell you that you should exercise discretion when deciding who it is you speak to about this, for there are many who will not be as understanding as those presently seated before you.” the matriarch warns before taking Brienne's big hand into hers. “Alas, dear child, you cannot continue to blame yourself for what transpired. There is enough strength and courage in you to fill the realm twice over, I've no doubt of that. As did Lord Renly, I am sure. Any king or queen worth their salt would be honored to have you in their guard.”

  
Brienne is positively taken aback by Olenna's words of understanding and kindness. So much so that she finds the praise altogether disconcerting, having never truly been spoken to in such a way before. Mocking and belittlement, sneering and japing, yes. Her whole life. But never words of sincere kindness, compassion or praise. “You are most kind, Lady Olenna. But I do not deserve such praise.”

  
“Absurd! A woman of your stature and skill deserves all the praise in the realm!” Olenna replies with encouragement. “Now I forbid there to be anymore talk of wraiths and the dead, for old alliances long gone. For what's done is done and there can be no changing it.” she continues, goblet in her wrinkled hand. “A toast, my lord and fellow ladies, to new alliances! To Lady Margaery and King Joffrey --” the clinks and clangs of goblets can be heard in acknowledgment -- Lady Olenna continues, a hopeful smile on her weathered face. “To Ser Jaime Lannister and Lady Brienne of Tarth!”

  
Brienne feels her face break out in a fresh tinge of blush and her eyes widen as the surprise toast concludes.

  
Margeary chuckles. “Dear grandmother, whatever gave you the idea that Ser Jaime is to wed Lady Brienne, pray tell?”

  
“Surely you know me better than that, my dear. I've been around a rather long time. Long enough to have seen the same eyes on different people. The same looks. And when you get to be my age – and no doubt look just as good as I – so will you. When I look at these two, it is unmistakable! Can you not see it, my dear? The story of love in their eyes! Tis' beautiful!”

  
Jaime nearly chokes on his fresh swig of wine, caught off guard by Olenna's uncanny ability to read betwixt the lines. _Maybe it was my face_ , Jaime muses, remembering how he'd looked himself once over in the mirror before leaving Brienne's chambers alongside her. He'd noticed an odd glow about himself, particularly in his eyes, something that had been lacking in him after his late night trysts with Cersei. Their encounters were always the same -- hard, fast, filthy and one-sided; it was always about her and what she wanted, and while Jaime always made it a point to bend over backwards for her, when it came to reciprocating, Cersei was rarely, if ever, eager to do so. Her hands and mouth always felt bored around his cock and balls, as if she couldn't wait for him to finish. While her passion burned brighter than fire, Cersei herself was as cold as The Lands of Always Winter when it came to loving anyone other than herself.

  
And even though Brienne was still awkward as ever when it came to making love to him, Jaime knew that even without her wealth of expertise, Brienne had already made him feel as if he mattered whenever they made love.

  
Margeary gazes between Jaime and Brienne, eager for an answer from either one of them. “Well? What say you? Ser Jaime? Lady Brienne?”

  
“Come now, my dear, do not pry. I have been wrong from time to time,. And besides, I did not speak a word of Ser Jaime marrying Lady Brienne. I merely said they were in love.” Olenna corrects, seeing the look of shared awkwardness on Jaime's and Brienne's faces. “A love as pure as theirs is a most uncommon occurrence in this day and age. Surely something can be said about that...”

  
Elsewhere, far from the attention of the quaint gathering of lord and ladies, Cersei Lannister flees her point of secrecy behind a bush of thick shrubbery, having been eavesdropping on her brother ever since first receiving word of his appearing with Brienne on the grounds of the Red Keep from one of her many little birds fluttering about the complex. Her gown dances behind her in the seabreeze as she makes haste for her father's chambers atop the Tower of The Hand.

 

* * *

 

Once there, there is nothing discrete or subdued about her entrance, both doors flying open to reveal her flustered appearance. Lord Tywin sits at his stationary, quill in hand and pressed to parchment, unperturbed by his daughter's dramatic entrance into his chambers. “I do not recall your mother bringing you up with the manners of a commoner. What is it?” Tywin scoffs, never once looking up from his task.

  
Cersei braces her hands atop the rich wooden desk. “When were you going to tell me, Father?”

  
Tywin glances up at her. “About?”

  
Her lips curl into a snarl, hands clawing at the still wet parchment and tearing it to shreds. “You know exactly what! Jaime and that – that lumbering sow from Tarth! Surely you do not intend to allow their betrothal to proceed?!”

  
Tywin regards her calmly, his face vacant of emotion. “It is of no concern of yours to whom Jaime marries. Lord Selwyn and House Tarth have been vassals to House Baratheon for centuries and with this alliance, our House will have greater power and influence in the Stormlands, especially now that Renly Baratheon is dead. With Stannis having falsely proclaimed himself king and rejecting the title of Lord Paramount of the Stormlands, it should please Lord Selwyn a great deal when Lady Brienne accepts the title on behalf of both our Houses.”

  
“But surely you can see the madness of such an arrangement.” Cersei argues with disgust. “Such a loathsome, foul beast of a woman. She will bring dishonor and mockery upon House Lannister.”

  
“What she lacks in appearance, Lady Tarth makes up for such discrepancies with loyalty and battle courage, qualities rarely seen in a highborn lady; though he was maimed during their journey, your brother would have died had it not been for Lady Tarth's efforts. I am quite certain she will produce more than suitable heirs for both Houses.” Tywin glares. “As will you. With Ser Loras of House Tyrell.”

  
“What?” gasps Cersei. “Surely you can't be serious--”

  
Tywin's reprimand is firm. “I will not dignify that with an answer. This discussion is over – Jaime is to marry Lady Brienne and put a child in her promptly. And you will do the same with Ser Loras now that he has been relieved of his duty to the Kingsguard. Should I discover your attempt to jeopardize these arrangements in any way, I will have you thrown into the cells! Do I make myself clear?”

  
Rather than comply with her father's demands, however, Cersei is instead determined to have the last word. “Your grandson is king, therefore your words mean nothing! _His_ demands are the _only_ ones that matter!”

  
Tywin watches his daughter make haste for the double doors, incensed, yet he does not share her fervor, his face and voice calm, collected, and full of dire intent. “My grandson is merely an incompetent figurehead for the masses – in the end, my words are the only ones that matter. Do not tempt me to remind you of this fact, my dear... Now go. Get out of my sight.”

  
Cersei leaves without so much as another word.

  
Sometime later, angry cries of passion can be heard beyond her bedchamber doors...

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like a lot of things in this fic so far, it's my first time writing the fabulous Olenna Tyrell (long may she reign as the queen of the verbal bitchslap) and so I hope I was able to at least do her a smidge of justice.


	9. The Purple Wedding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> King's Landing and House Lannister host a wedding that's to die for...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Greetings, my lovelies! Once again, I'd like to thank everyone who has left kudos and comments about how much they are enjoying this not-so-little story of mine. Seriously, you guys are fabulous. I hope you'll continue to enjoy the story as it goes along <3 
> 
> As far as chapters go, this one is definitely the longest one thus far! Enjoy everyone!

Jaime Lannister sits inside his bedchamber, surrounded by Qyburn and Cersei, his right arm resting atop a small table with his stump on full display while Qyburn tends to it. It's been a month since Jaime's return to the capital, and Qyburn is pleased with Jaime's recovery from the near fatal infection of his right arm, with the stump of his wrist having scarred over for the most part. As the former maester continues to examine Jaime, Cersei paces pensively back and forth across the room, her trademark wine goblet in hand; she'll need all the help she can get in order to get through this most horrid of days – in just a few short hours, her eldest son, King Joffrey Baratheon, is to formally wed Lady Margaery of House Tyrell.

  
And Jaime is to depart for Casterly Rock with that loathsome, stupid brute of a woman, Brienne of Tarth and leave her behind forever.

  
She takes another swig just as Qyburn fetches Jaime's new prosthetic hand and begins to carefully ease it on to Jaime's stump. Jaime gazes down at his wrist, at the hideous hunk of golden gilded steel being strapped to his stump, repugnant; he can't stand the sight of the godsdamned thing – grossly ornate even by Lannister standards, impractical, weighty – but holds his tongue due to it having been a “gift” from his sister to commemorate House Lannister's alliance with House Tarth. “A work of art, really. The craftsmanship is exquisite,” Qyburn remarks while buckling the leather gauntlet into place.

  
But Jaime is less than enamored with the bloody thing. It already feels like a gilded steel shackle around his wrist, a mocking way of trying to cover up yet another of his family's dirty little secrets. “You like it so much, you're welcome to cut your own hand off and use it.”

  
Cersei ceases her pacing, her green eyes full of scorn. “Such an ingrate. You sound like a petulant child. I'll have you know I spent days with the goldsmith trying to get the details just right.”

  
Jaime looks up at her, skeptical. “Days?”

  
Cersei merely shrugs before taking another sip of wine. “Fine – the better part of an afternoon. Satisfied?” she huffs.

  
Jaime bears a slight grunt as Qyburn makes his final adjustments. “How does that feel, my lord?” he asks.

  
Jaime looks upon the cursed heap of gold attached to his arm with reluctance. “A hook would have been more practical. Is it not possible to curb some of the weight?”

  
“Elegant, I think.” Qyburn muses, more to himself than to Jaime. “And I'm afraid I've no expertise on that matter, my lord. Perhaps the goldsmith would be better able to attend to the issue than I.” The maester excuses himself before preparing to leave the twins when Cersei meets him at the door.

  
“Thank you for your help with the other matter.” she utters.

  
“The symptoms have abated?”

  
Jaime watches as Cersei nods. “Gone completely. Like my brother, I am also in your debt, Maester Qyburn.”

  
Qyburn is quick to correct her. “ _Former_ maester, Your Grace, but happy to help wherever I can. Good day to you, Your Grace. My lord.” he smiles.

  
“Odd little man,” Jaime quips after Qyburn has left the room. “And what symptoms? Have you not been well?” Though they no longer harbor incestuous ties to one another, Jaime is concerned about his sister nevertheless.

  
Cersei knows better than to indulge her brother's curiosity despite his good intentions, however, and chooses to be as vague as possible in order to assert her perceived power over him. “Symptoms that are none of your concern. Besides that, you're one to talk about odd men now that there are two bringing disgrace upon our House. Soon to be three with your marriage to that androgynous beast.”

  
Jaime's eyes flare with anger, his concern for his sister's well-being having been quickly swept away. “Says the woman who's son – _our_ son – uses the Iron Throne as an excuse to do anything he damn well pleases! Is it not Joffrey who is partially to blame for the great war that has befallen the Seven Kingdoms? Had he any semblance of a conscious between his ears, Eddard Stark would still be alive! So do not lecture me about what it means to bring disgrace upon our House when you are just as guilty of it as I!” He gestures toward the garish gold hand attached to his wrist, fumbling with the buckles of the gauntlet with his left hand, flustered by his lack of dexterity. “And I did not ask to have my sword hand chopped off! I did not ask to be turned into a cripple for you and Father to mock and belittle!”

  
It's a scene Cersei is finding all too amusing at present as a slight and sadistic grin quivers the corner of her lips. “I could have you put to death for speaking ill of our king, but watching you struggle brings me too much joy, dear brother. Besides, I didn't bestow you that gift for your sake, but the sake of House Lannister – at least one ugly thing could still be covered up. The same cannot, however, be said about that abhorrent freak you intend to marry.”

  
Jaime clutches the gold hand, the fingers of his left hand claw-like and fierce. “Hateful cunt of a woman!” he roars before throwing the weighty hunk of gold in Cersei's direction. She flinches if only for a moment. “Take that fucking paperweight with you and get out of my chambers, now!”

  
Cersei exudes an air of confidence as she casually picks up the hand and leaves her brother's chambers without another word; just a cold, calculating glare full of mad cunning as the gears of revenge begin to turn inside her mind...

  
Brienne kneels panting before the privy in her bedchamber, her stomach a mess of knots. Since her youth, she'd found grand social gatherings to be off-putting and rather drab. Ones where, as a highborn lady, she was expected to represent her House with the utmost dignity and respect and do all the things ladies were expected to do – curtsy, mingle, engage in gossip with other women... The thought of it all was enough to literally make her sick with worry.

  
She grunts into the mouth of the privy to vomit once more, wishing the day would hurry up and be over soon.

 

* * *

 

Sometime later, after Jaime has calmed from his heated exchange with Cersei, he stands within the White Sword Tower, huddled over a table with fellow Kingsguard, Ser Meryn Trant, discussing security during Joffrey and Margaery's wedding festivities set for later today, while Joffrey stands at the window admiring the statue built in his likeness to commemorate his defeat of Stannis Baratheon at the Battle of the Blackwater.

  
“All the Kingsguard will be on duty of course... Ser Boros will be stationed here,” Jaime points to a spot on the parchment layout of the courtyard splayed out on the table. “Ser Preston will be stationed here beside the...,” his voice ebbs off suddenly, having taken observation of the boy king's pompous body language as he stands still before the window, admiring the brass casting of himself. Jaime clears his throat. “...the primary entertainment.”

  
“Your Grace?” asks Ser Meryn.

  
Joffrey breaks his mimicking of the statue, turning to look upon Ser Trant with passive irritation. “Yes, yes,” he says dismissively with a sweep of his hand, “one guard at the – at the thing. Go on.”

  
Jaime returns his focus to the parchment. “Ser Meryn, you will guard Lady Margaery and Tommen.”

  
“I've always guarded the king himself, my lord. Ever since your absence.” Ser Meryn protests.

  
“And I thank you for it, Ser Meryn,” Jaime replies in earnest before his tone turns mocking, “Though, I do wonder how in Seven Hells you managed to do that and still find time to partake in the beating of women and children.”

  
“I stand by our king!” Meryn rebukes, indignant.

  
“Of course you do, I do not dispute that. But perhaps you may care to enlighten me as to where in the _Book of Brothers_ it is written that Kingsguard swear to beat and rape women and children...?”

  
Before Ser Meryn can reply, the situation is promptly – albeit reluctantly – diffused by the smug king. “All very good, Uncle. Ser Meryn, you will obey your Lord Commander and do your duty. Though, I do not expect any trouble. The people love their king! They know who keeps them fed.”

  
Jaime cocks a brow, skeptical. “Lady Margaery, so I've heard.” he quips under his breath.

  
Joffrey glares at his japing uncle. “By my leave. The people of King's Landing know I saved the city. That I won the war!”

  
“The war is not won.” Jaime corrects promptly. “Not while Stannis Baratheon lives.”

  
Joffrey points to himself for emphasis. “ _I_ broke Stannis at the Battle of Blackwater Bay! Unlike you, on some quest to find that little monster brother of yours.”

  
Jaime is sarcastic in his tone. “My apologies, Your Grace. I was rather busy.”

  
Joffrey's eyes are cold, just like his mother's in everything but color. “Busy getting captured, you mean to say.” His attention turns to the thick, leather-bound tome in front of him on the table. The Kingsguard _Book of Brothers_ , detailing the deeds of every knight fortunate enough to have served within the Kingsguard's prestigious three-hundred year history, dating back to its inception under King Aegon Targaryen the First. Joffrey flips passively to a random page, the weathered parchment crinkling beneath his reckless touch, and begins to trace the text with his index finger. “So this is the legendary _Book of Brothers_ – ah, Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of The Morning,” he chuckles at the mention of Ser Dayne before reading aloud a pair Dayne's deeds. “' _Led the attack on the Kingswood Brotherhood... Won many tourneys and broke twelve lances against Rhaegar Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone, at the Tourney of Storm's End...'”_

  
Joffrey flips the page, glancing over Ser Ducan's entries. “Four pages for Ser Duncan The Tall. He must have been quite a man.” he notes with -- to Jaime at least -- sounds more like sarcasm than actual sincerity.

  
“So they say,” muses Jaime. He'd wanted to be Ser Ducan and Ser Arthur Dayne once, in simpler times. He watches as Joffrey turns the page, taken aback by the reality in relation to his childhood dreams. His entry is but a mere paragraph _._ “Ser Jaime Lannister,” Joffrey snickers, punctuated by a chuckle. “Someone forgot to write down all your great deeds.”

  
“There's still time, Your Grace.” he replies with assurance.

  
“Is there?” Joffrey asks mockingly. “For a forty year old Kingslayer with one hand? How can you protect me with that?”

  
Jaime steels himself in spite of his internal seething over just how callous and spiteful the boy is. “I use my left hand now, Your Grace. Makes for more of a challenge. And besides, I'm afraid this is to be my last act as a brother and Lord Commander of the Kingsguard before I leave for Casterly Rock.”

  
“Good riddance, then.” scoffs Joffrey before leaving the room with Ser Meryn following closely behind.

  
Jaime glances down at his page, an angry slant to his brow, before slamming the tome closed.

  
While on his way to meet with Brienne in her chambers, Jaime encounters his brother Tyrion in the halls, flanked by a swarthy-looking man with dark hair, blue eyes and a patchy beard, dressed in a worn, olive drab leather jerkin and matching breeches. “Ah, Jaime, there you are. I've been looking for you,” Tyrion greets. “There are things we must discuss in private before our Mad Boy King is to wed Lady Margaery. But first I'd like you to meet the gentleman at my side. I do not believe you've been properly introduced,” Tyrion looks up at his greasy partner, “Ser Bronn of The Blackwater, a nefarious cunt of a man, to be certain. But you'll find no one more willing to defend you...for the right price.”

  
Jaime looks at him, wary. “You're a sellsword.” Like the Lord Commander before him, Ser Barristan Selmy, Jaime didn't think too highly of people like Bronn or any other form of mercenary for that matter, believing that any man who fought for gold or purely for themselves had neither honor nor loyalty and could not be trusted.

  
Bronn grins, his forehead wrinkling. “Aye. And you're a Kingslayer. _The_ Kingslayer, actually. Jaime Lannister... The Little Fucker won't shut up about you. Says in your prime, you could slay five men with one hand, while taking a piss with the left. Now, of course, I bet you can't even handle your cock with your left hand, much less a sword.” His eyes are immediately drawn to the gold hilt at Jaime's hip. “Fancy sword you've got there. Just for show, I gather.”

  
Jaime clutches the hilt out of instinct. “No. I intend to retrain my left hand in time.”

  
Tyrion moves the conversation forward. “Yes, well, be that as it may, I must talk to my brother in private, Ser Bronn. Perhaps you could keep Podrick company.”

  
The brothers talk over a shared pitcher of wine, holed up in a vacant guest chamber. “Given what we are about to witness, a belly full of wine is the least of our problems,” Tyrion muses before holding his goblet towards the ceiling. “To the Brothers Lannister – Halfman and Handless!” he toasts with wry humor, much to his elder brother's amusement. Their goblets clank together in acknowledgment before Tyrion takes a swig. “A little bird told me our sweet sister attempted to present you with a rather tongue-in-cheek gift to commemorate your betrothal to Lady Brienne.”

  
Jaime attempts to keep his tone light. “She did. A new hand made of gold and gilded steel. Ugly as the Seven Hells, even by Lannister standards.”

  
Tyrion reaches for the pitcher to refill their cups. “I see you refused it. Bravo, brother. Perhaps she could use it to fuck herself on those particularly lonely nights while Ser Gregor is busy raping and pillaging on her and Father's behalf.”

  
Jaime looks upon his brother with alarm. "Tell me that was just a slight of tongue, that she is not fucking that stupid barbarian..."

  
"I wouldn't expect her to make light of it to you, but yes -- our sweet sister is fucking The Mountain. Do not ask how I came to know that. I wish I didn't." Tyrion replies.

  
Jaime gulps down his wine in one fell swoop. "Hypocrisy, thy name is Cersei Lannister, indeed." He nudges his goblet forward. "Pour me another, Tyrion. In any case, what of Lady Sansa? Have you managed to convince her to accompany Lady Brienne and I on our journey to Casterly Rock?”

  
Tyrion averts his brother's gaze. “No. She...she is still adamant in her assumption that Lady Tarth had a role in the death of her mother and refuses to acknowledge Brienne's oath of protection on behalf of Catelyn Stark. Nothing I've told her of Brienne has been able to sway her position.”

  
“Pig-headed Northerners...” Jaime scoffs. “What then? We're to leave for Casterly Rock at the conclusion of the king's wedding feast! You do understand that I do not intend to leave you here with that vindictive sister of ours? It would please her far too much to strangle you in your sleep. And Father to give the order.”

  
Tyrion looks upon his brother with a sense of remorse in his eyes. “I'm sorry, brother. But I am Lady Sansa's husband. I swore a vow to protect her, to never leave her in her time of need. Though I do not doubt that this arrangement is a farce, I swore an oath nevertheless.”

  
Jaime wears a look of perplexity upon his scarred face. “Are you mad? If the both of you stay here, Cersei will arrange to have you killed, and Lady Sansa sold off like some broodmare! You're an intelligent man – surely you must know it to be true!” he pleads.

  
Tyrion comes from his chair to stand before his brother. His hand seeks Jaime's own in a gesture of brotherly love. “While I do not dispute this, my answer still stands. I simply can't do it. On behalf of House Lannister – you and I – and Lady Brienne, I will make certain to do all in my power to fulfill your shared oath to protect Lady Sansa. It's true I am not a knight, but this I swear, upon the Old Gods and the New.”

  
Jaime sweeps his brother into a loving embrace, his eyes teary. Places a familial kiss upon his cheek. Tyrion clings to his brother. The siblings share a long moment of silence. As they do, Tyrion reflects back on his childhood and the fondness his big brother had always showed him, the only one of his family to have done so. As a child, Jaime would bring his baby brother toys he'd stolen from his sister's room, sweets, even a little lion he'd once spent the better part of a day haphazardly carving from a block of wood. Unbeknownst to Jaime, Tyrion still had that little wooden lion, tucked away for safe keeping. It, along with his memories of time spent with his big brother, are the only memories the Little Lion cherished from his youth spent at Casterly Rock.

  
Tyrion breaks away from his brother slowly, one of his stubby fingers tracing down the trail of tears staining Jaime's chiseled cheek and the scar surrounding it. “Humility looks good on you, Jaime. So perhaps something good did come from the loss of your identity. Well, two somethings,” Tyrion smiles. “I suppose the only one that matters though is Lady Brienne. She truly does love you, as I'm sure you're well aware. I would tell you to protect her, but judging by her martial prowess and courage, perhaps I should be telling her to protect _you_ instead.”

  
Jaime and Tyrion share a laugh before the elder Lannister's expression turns into one of fondness as he marvels over the lady knight soon to be his wife. “I'd be a fool to bet against her in single combat, that's for certain. She is...truly a knight in every way but title, and I am fortunate she was able to look past my faults and help me in becoming what I was truly meant to be.”

  
“Perhaps she could help you to retrain your left hand.” Tyrion suggests. “Though I've not actually seen her fight, it's my understanding that she served Renly's Kingsguard for a time as a reward for defeating Ser Loras. Surely that is enough to speak volumes about what kind of warrior she is.”

  
Jaime nods. “I can attest to her prowess, having seen it myself. She moves well, though she does lack polish in certain aspects. Still, perhaps you're on to something...”

  
Tyrion looks upon his pensive brother. “Of course I am, dear brother. When have you ever known me to be lacking in wits?” he asks. “Definitely give it some solid thought. If not to reclaim some of what you lost, then certainly for the satisfaction of seeing the looks of consternation upon the faces of our dear sister and father as they shit themselves at the sight of you proving that, even though you are crippled, the Lion of Lannister still has claws!”

  
Bells can suddenly be heard ringing a great distance away at the Great Sept of Baelor, signifying the royal wedding is soon to take place. Jaime and Tyrion share one final hug before Tyrion starts for the door. “Come, dear brother, we have a funeral to attend!”

 

* * *

 

Music, laughter and a sense of jubilance fill the grand courtyard of the Red Keep as guests eat, drink and celebrate the royal wedding of King Joffrey Baratheon the First to Queen Margaery Tyrell. Seated atop the dais are the most prominent members of both House Lannister and House Tyrell; Joffrey and Margaery sit in the center, surrounded by Cersei, Tywin, Sansa Stark and Tyrion, with the king slouched in his chair, a look of boredom on his face as he watches a group of musicians perform an atrocious, off key rendition of _'The Rains of Castamere.'_ Off in the slight distance, Jaime stands at his post keeping his senses trained on the swarm of guests seated at their tables.

  
He has yet to catch sight of Brienne, unusual given her physicality. She was, however, present for the actual ceremony in spite of looking altogether unwell, much to Jaime's concern. He breaks focus from the central dais to survey the scattered tables, hoping to spot her amongst the sea of heads only to feel his heart pang with a sickening feeling of dread when he is unable to find her, his mind swirling with questions: Was she all right? Gotten cold feet and decided against marrying him? Did she finally succumb to the pull of her moral compass and go off on a harrowing quest to secure Arya Stark? Jaime takes a deep breath, his lungs filling with the muggy air, hoping some fresh air will clear his head of the gnawing questions.

  
Lady Olenna meets with Sansa Stark and Tyrion Lannister on the other end of the dais. The Tyrell matriarch, looking as regal and wise as ever, gently takes hold of Sansa's hands, offering her her condolences on the tragic deaths of Robb and Catelyn Stark. “I've not the opportunity to tell you how sorry I was to hear of your mother and brother, child. True, war is war, but killing at a wedding? Simply horrid. As if men needed another reason to fear marriage...”

  
Sansa simply watches as the elder Tyrell traces her cheek with her thumb and casually examines the necklace around the young woman's neck. “Thank you, Lady Olenna. But I believe such tragedy could have been prevented had my mother's Sworn Sword not abandoned her in favor of escorting the Kingslayer back here to King's Landing.”

  
Sitting next to her, Tyrion considers his reluctant wife with a side glance. Though it pains him to have to do so, he chooses to keep his misgivings quiet in her presence.

  
“So much misguided anger in you, child,” observes Olenna. “I've met Lady Brienne personally, and she is a true knight in everything but title. She could not have predicted what was to befall your mother no more than we can predict how and when we shall leave the mortal coil.”

  
“Thank you, my lady. But that doesn't change the fact that she still should have been there.” Sansa replies with a sense of finality.

  
Olenna merely sighs. “You're still young, child. Perhaps when you've lived in this horrid world long enough, you'll come to understand things do not always work out in the manner we believe they should. Now, if you'll excuse me, I think it's time I ate some of this food I paid for.”

  
As Olenna walks back to her seat at the table, Joffrey rises to his feet in haste, having tired of the musicians and promptly throws a few gold dragons at them with disgust. “Yes, yes – off you go! Use your small fortune to invest in proper lessons, your king commands it!” he chastises before being joined by Queen Margaery.

  
As the royal pair make an announcement, Jaime is jostled out of his head by a run in with Ser Loras. “Ah, Ser Jaime. Forgive me. Without your hand, you do not cast as great a presence as you used to; I must not have seen you.”

  
Jaime attempts to keep his tone nonchalant even though he very much feels like throttling the impudent little bastard and wiping the shit-eating grin from his pretty face. “Ser Loras. It's quite all right.”

 

Loras looks upon Cersei as she sits seated next to Lord Tywin atop the central dais. “Your sister looks simply beautiful.”

  
Jaime shares in the knight's sentiments. “As does yours. Looking forward to your wedding?”

  
Loras nods. “Yes, very much so. I would ask you the same thing but I suppose it really is a moot question in your case. What with a woman as ugly as that...”

  
Though Jaime doesn't leave his post, he nevertheless steps up on Ser Loras, knowing he must defend Brienne's honor in her absence. “Big of you to insult my lady when she is in no position to defend herself. Perhaps I should have let her smash in that pretty little face of yours after all...” He moves to within inches of Ser Loras' face, lips to his ear. “Do you know what she does to people she doesn't like, Ser Loras...?”

  
Loras keeps his gaze poised in front of him, suddenly uncomfortable at the dark tone of his Lord Commander's voice.

  
Jaime snickers. “Then perhaps you should ask the poor fool whose cock she skewered with her sword after he spoke one too many insults about her appearance... I know all about you, boy. You love your cock as much as other men love my sister's cunt...Don't you, Ser Loras...?” he whispers.

  
Loras attempts to keep his voice level. “That was...unworthy, forgive me.”

  
Jaime steps back from Loras, a smug look on his face. “So glad we could straighten that out. The next time you speak of my highborn lady, you will call her by her proper name, lest I take it upon myself to remind you of this with my own sword to your cock." He pats Loras cheekily on the back. "Before you go, a word of advice about Cersei, if I may?”

  
Loras straightens himself out. Clears his throat. “Of course, Ser Jaime.”

  
“If you actually do end up marrying her, take heed and sleep with one eye open. And if you were to end up putting a child in her, do not become too attached to it while it slumbers in her womb, lest she murder him too, long before he draws his first breath... Welcome to the family, Ser Loras.”  
  


 

* * *

 

Brienne splashes some cold water on her face, her chest and throat sore from her latest round of vomiting. She'd been nauseous throughout the entire wedding ceremony, feeling as if there was a tempest raging in her stomach. _Nerves and the rich King's Landing food_ , she assures herself while straightening out her simple sapphire dress tunic, only to wince at the touch of her chest. She frowns, her look contemplative before she gulps back the acrid taste of bile. _Best get on with it, then_ , she tells herself before presenting herself to the horde of guests outside.

  
She makes her way toward the central dais, posture straight with arms clasped behind her back. Though she tries not to break sight with her destination, Brienne can't help but catch the whispers, the sidelong glances, the staring, all of it directed at her as she makes her way through the seated horde. She steels herself before the dais, gulping back her nausea and embarrassment as she wills herself into a bow before Cersei, Joffrey and Margaery. “Your Grace. My king. My queen.” she greets with a warm smile.

  
Cersei feigns a greeting of kindness. “Lady Brienne. So good of you to come.”

  
“I'm no lady, Your Grace. Brienne will suffice.”

  
“Did you just bow beforehand?” Cersei asks, trying to stifle a laugh. Her son, however, sits next to her grinning from ear to ear.

  
Brienne's fair cheeks flush. “Apologies, Your Grace. I was never one to practice the curtsy like all the other girls.”

  
Joffrey pops a candied almond into his mouth. “I remember you. You're that toe-headed plank who put a sword through Renly Baratheon, and returned that good for nothing Uncle of mine to King's Landing. Should have saved us all the trouble and left him for dead.”

  
Margaery looks to her husband, nonchalant. “That's not true, my love. Lady Brienne had nothing to do with it.” she promptly corrects, much to Cersei's disdain.

  
“Pity,” replies Joffrey with disappointment. “I'd knight the man who put an end to that deviant's life.”

  
Brienne attempts to redirect the conversation away from Renly. “I just wanted to congratulate you both and wish you good fortune. May your reign be long and peaceful. Your Grace. My king--”

  
Joffrey waves away her kind regards, brutal in his reply. “Yes, yes. Back to the stables you go.”

  
Brienne feels her heart wrench at the king's crass, brutal remark. Even more so when she catches the faintest trace of satisfaction on Cersei's face.

  
Lady Margaery, seeing the dejection on the former maiden's pale face, attempts to console the poor woman. “What my love was trying to say was that we hope to see more of you, my lady.”

  
Brienne gives a slight nod before excusing herself.

  
“Lady Brienne!” she hears Cersei call and turns to meet her. “As Lord Selwyn Tarth's daughter, that makes you a lady whether you want to be or not," she explains before clasping her hands in front of her. "And I'd like to apologize on behalf of Joffrey. Sometimes he says things he truly does not mean. If you could find it in your heart to forgive him.”

  
“Yes, I'm sure he meant nothing by it, Your Grace,” Brienne replies. “If you'll excuse me, I'm feeling a bit unwell.”

  
Brienne suddenly feels Cersei's fingers clawing around her bicep. “Your Grace?”

  
Cersei looks as if she's about to spit venom, her green eyes filled with knowing and spite. “I was watching you just now; I know that look. Is that why you disobeyed my order to leave this place? So you could go behind my back and fuck my brother like the whore you are? Does he know?”

  
Brienne looks down at Cersei with a look of muted shock on her face. “I don't know wha--”

  
Cersei promptly interjects. “Though you look utterly brainless, I gather you're smarter than your looks would suggest. Surely you've felt it lately, that spark flickering to life inside your belly... All pregnant women do."

  
Brienne merely stares at Cersei, her mouth slightly agape as the breath is knocked from her chest. “Y-Your grace,” she stammers before turning to look at Jaime, suddenly sick to her stomach.

  
Jaime catches her frightened gaze, suddenly concerned. But he cannot leave his post, and so is forced to watch as Brienne leaves the courtyard in haste. Cersei regards her twin with ice water in her veins.

  
He knows that look. Like Joffrey, nothing good ever came from that look.

 

* * *

 

Sometime later, after having been forced to sit through a taste of his bastard son's sadistic sense of humor in the form of a repugnant reenactment of the War of the Five Kings by several dwarves in which they joust, fight, make crude sexual jokes – and fun of Renly Baratheon in particular, much to Ser Loras' disgust – followed promptly by a tense exchange between Joffrey and his uncle Tyrion, Jaime Lannister shifts his weight from one foot to the other in discomfort, his body sweltering beneath the muggy air, oppressive heat and his gold suit of armor and leather. Yet all he can think about is Brienne, as he has yet to see her return from wherever it was she ran off to in such a hurry.

  
“Oh look, the pie!” Margaery announces with glee in an attempt to lighten the lingering tension before she is handed Joffrey's empty goblet by the boy king himself; she places it at the edge of the table closest to her grandmother. Jaime is brought from his reverie, watching with dull interest as the enormous pigeon pie is rolled out from the kitchens and into the center of the courtyard, much to the delightful relief of those in attendance. King Joffrey and Queen Margaery descend from the dais to the applause of their guests to stand before the three-tier pie.

  
Joffrey surveys his loyal subjects with a glint of arrogance in his ice blue eyes before drawing his pristine blade, Hearteater, and lifting it in a high arch over his head, only to hack a deep gash into the great pie; the nuptials and their guests watch as several white doves fly out and into the heavens overhead. But all Jaime can think about is the amount of savage relish Joffrey displayed as he prepared his strike, almost as if he'd been imagining the pie to be Ned Stark's head the entire time. _Miserable cunt_ , scoffs Jaime to himself as the pie is served first to the king and queen, then to family and guests thereafter. _Preening like a peacock, so sure of himself, yet I'd wager savagely hacking into a pie is the extent of his swordsmanship, by far. Boy wouldn't last five seconds in real combat..._

  
Sansa looks to Tyrion, his curled brownish blond hair still wet and reeking of spilled wine. “Please, Lord Tyrion, can we go now?” she asks, feigning, “Suddenly I do not feel well.”

  
Tyrion attempts to leave with his wife, but is quickly stopped by his nephew. “Uncle! Where are you going? You are my sworn cupbearer, remember?”

  
Tyrion gestures to his embroidered red and black leather jerkin, “My wife has taken ill, Your Grace. Plus I thought I would change out of these wet clothes.”

  
Joffrey dismisses his uncle with a shake of his head while attacking the hearty pie with gusto. “No, no. You're perfect the way you are. Serve me my wine.”

  
Tyrion hesitates, much to Joffrey's irritation. “Well, hurry up, Uncle! This pie is dry.”

  
Tyrion begrudgingly obeys his nephew's command and pours him a cup of wine, which Joffrey snatches greedily from his hand and begins to gulp from it. “Good, good,” sighs Joffrey with relief as the piece of parched pie dislodges from his throat. “Needs washing down.” Soon after, however, guests and family alike look upon the king with concern as he struggles to breathe and clutches at his chest and throat.

  
“Your Grace?” asks Tyrion.

  
Jaime is watching the harrowing scene unfold from a distance. _What in the Seven Hells...?_ he wonders to himself, noticing how Joffrey is gasping, coughing and clawing frantically at his throat.

  
Lady Olenna stands as Cersei pushes past Queen Margaery to meet Joffrey at his side just as he begins to stumble to the ground. “He's choking! Idiots! – help your king!” the Tyrell matriarch barks to the Kingsguard stationed in the immediate area.

  
Jaime is already well on his way there, his heart leaping frantic against his chest.

  
When he tries to assist Cersei, however, Jaime is immediately pushed away by her, her eyes wild. “Get away – don't touch him!”” she screams while flipping her son on his side just as he vomits all over himself. He claws at her arm, his lips blue, skin purple, eyes bloodshot and wide with horror and disbelief.

  
In the chaos, Sana is apprehended by a familiar face – the king's Fool, Ser Dontos. “Come with me now, Lady Sansa.” he commands in haste. When she does not reply, he presses the matter. “If you want to live, we have to leave. Now!”

  
Without so much as another word, Sansa takes hold of the knight's hand and flees under the cover of chaos.

  
“Joffrey! Joffrey, what is it? Speak to me, my darling!” Cersei pleads, on the verge of tears at the sight of her eldest son seemingly dying before her eyes. His face is covered in busted blood vessels. Blood trickles from his nose in thin rivulets... As she watches the life fading from his eyes, his body convulsing in its death throes, Cersei's mind is filled with memories of the baby she'd spent hours – days – bringing into the world, of his tiny hands and feet, the little wisps of his downy soft golden hair... Whenever she was with him, and he with her, they were happy. For all that the baby had now became, as far as Cersei was concerned, nobody could take those precious moments away from her. Not even the Stranger.

  
Tears of knowing soon swell in her eyes. For everything that Cersei and House Lannister represent to the realm, none of it is enough to save the life of her precious child. Not the money. Not the power. She can do nothing but watch as her son reaches out in front of him, as if trying to grasp or point at something, before succumbing to the Stranger's cruel will, covered in blood and vomit.

  
“My son,” cries Cersei. “My beautiful son...!”

  
Jaime moves to close Joffrey's still open eyes out of respect in spite of the fact that he feels no real remorse for what's become of his bastard, having been nothing more than a squirt of seed to him. His gesture is quickly rejected by his grieving twin, who clutches her son to her breast. Cersei's eyes follow in the direction Joffrey had been gesturing towards just mere moments beforehand, pointing an accusatory finger in his diminutive uncle's direction. Her eyes fill with rage as the Little Lion bends to pick up Joffrey's goblet and examine it.

  
  


Something soon snaps, unseen, within the grieving and vengeful former Queen Regent; the sight of Tyrion clutching the goblet, coupled with the loss of her first born son, is enough to send Cersei Lannister on the warpath and an ominous chill down Jaime's spine. “ _He_ did this! The wretched little monster who killed my mother has now also killed my son – your king!” Cersei yells before the stunned guests and scattered Kingsguard. “Seize the imp! Take him to the Black Cells! TAKE HIM!!”

  
  


In that moment, Jaime feels his heart stop and blood turn cold...

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know in show canon, Joffrey was given the sister sword to what would later become Oathkeeper, Widow's Wail, by Lord Tywin on the day of his wedding. But for the sake of this story, Joffrey isn't in possession of Widow's Wail, but his previous sword, Hearteater, which, I know, he lost when Arya chucked it into the river...but bear with me here, lol. Joffrey wields Hearteater, 'nuff said.


	10. Preparations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime attempts to extend an olive branch to his grieving sister in light of King Joffrey's murder, only to have it blow up in his face; Tyrion ponders his future in light of his grievous circumstances; Brienne ponders the possibility of motherhood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Greetings, my lovelies! Back again with another chapter for you to enjoy -- isn't it exciting? I know I'm excited. As usual, a big "thank you!" to everyone who left kudos and comments last chapter and I hope you'll continue to enjoy the story as we go along. Just a quick heads up: I'm sure all you guys are aware of that controversial scene in the show that happens between Jaime and Cersei in the sept... Yes? No? Well, rest easy my lovelies, nothing of the sort to be found here!

The grand chamber of the sacred Great Sept of Baelor is all but silent, with a heavy scent of incense hanging in the somber air. Cersei Lannister gazes down in silence at the still corpse of her eldest child as he lay in-state atop an altar in the center of the vast chamber. Next to her stands her youngest child and heir apparent to the Iron Throne, Prince Tommen Baratheon. Tears of grief and heartache threaten to stain Cersei's cheeks and ruin her otherwise impervious demeanor, yet she wills them back if only for the sake of her sole surviving son and refusal to appear weak in the presence of her ruthless father as he stands adjacent to her and his grandson, wearing a look of cold stoicism upon his face.

  
True to his reputation as a pragmatic and ruthless man, Tywin wastes no time on grieving for the petulant fallen king and instead begins to instruct his other grandson in what makes for a good king. “Though you most certainly possess the right temperament, what makes for a good king, hmm? What is the single most important quality of a good king?”

  
Cersei looks to her son for a moment before issuing her father a prompt rebuke. “This is hardly the time or the place for this, Father.”

  
Tywin disregards his daughter's protests and angry glare while Tommen ponders his answer. He soon looks to his grandfather, uncertain: “Holiness?” he answers.

  
“Hmm. Baelor the Blessed was holy. And pious. He built this sept. He ended up fasting himself into an early grave because food was of this world and this world was sinful...” Tywin muses.

  
As the two continue their discussion, Cersei fixes her gaze once more upon Joffrey, his crown of stags atop his head, hands clasping Hearteater to his chest. Cersei stares at the painted funeral stones atop Joffrey's eyes. They stare back at her, cold and vacant. _My beautiful son_ , she tells him within the secrecy of her mind, wishing she could cup his cheek in her grasp one last time. _My strong, beautiful son... I will avenge you. I promise..._

  
With Cersei having gone deep inside herself, she's yet to notice Tywin escorting Tommen up the stairs with the intent of continuing their discussion elsewhere, and her twin's appearance at the top of the stairs. Nor is she able to note the almost fatherly way in which Jaime interacts with the impressionable youth as he descends the stone steps – Jaime gives his bastard a compassionate pat and squeeze on his shoulder before Tywin ushers the boy from the sacred place. Jaime gives the boy a brief look of concern before joining his grieving twin in the center of the cathedral.

  
“Give the Queen Regent a moment alone with her son please,” Jaime commands to the septon and septas before addressing the guards stationed around the altar and at the top of the stairs. “All of you. Dismissed.”

  
The doors close with a bellowing creak, shrouding the chamber in mild darkness. Jaime joins his twin at her side. She refuses to look at him, her eyes fixed on the body of King Joffrey. “What do you want?” she asks with little emotion in her words.

  
“Nothing,” Jaime replies. “I merely came to see how you were. Am I not allowed to do so?”

  
“I don't care what you do. I didn't ask for your sympathy.”

  
Jaime gathers himself. “You make it so godsdamned hard to feel sympathy for, do you know that?” he sighs. "I come here to extend a truce in light of what's happened -- to be here for you as your brother in spite of your poison -- and that is how you show your thanks, with bitterness and contempt towards me?"

  
“Ask me if I care,” Cersei replies dismissively before turning to meet him, her eyes as bright and ominous as wildfire. “And do not pretend to be concerned about me nor of the fact that our son is dead! You never cared about Joff! You wanted him dead just like Tyrion!”

  
Jaime stares at his sister, dumbfounded. While she was right about his lack of feelings towards Joffrey, believing him to be nothing more than a vile squirt of seed into her poisoned womb, Tommen and Myrcella, on the other hand, were stark contrasts to their elder brother, rather sweet and compassionate children, even in spite of their mother's pervasive influence. He'd wanted to be apart of their lives, be their father... Instead, he'd been forced to keep their true parentage a secret, to watch them grow up from a distance, completely unaware of the fact that their “uncle” was actually their father.

  
All because of his devotion to the hateful woman glaring at him with a murderous stare on her face.

  
“Have you gone mad?” Jaime is eventually able to ask. “Did you really just imply that I had something to do with Joffrey's murder?”

  
“Look me in the eyes and tell me you didn't help Tyrion kill Joffrey!” demands Cersei.

  
“What good would that do?” Jaime spits. “ You wouldn't believe me anyway! And may I remind you that I don't believe for a second that my brother – _our_ brother – had anything to do with Joffrey's death! But you – you only see what you want to see. You've always been that way. You've always seen Tyrion as a monster and had it in for him from the moment he drew his first breath!”

  
“So you don't deny it, then... How the mighty have fallen,” Cersei replies coolly. “Seems as if that deceitful cow influenced you in more ways than one.”

  
“Deceitful? Careful, dear sister – you're speaking of a highborn lady, and my soon-to-be wife – do not bring further disgrace to our House with petty insults – call her by her name. Call her Brienne!”

  
When Cersei remains silent, simply looking upon him with scorn, Jaime is more forceful in his demand. “Call. Her. Brienne.”

  
Cersei snickers. “Only if you admit to your crimes against the Crown and the Realm.”

  
Jaime scowls at her, vehement. But he does not utter a word, knowing doing so is what she wants. Yet, he also knows he's damned if he does, and damned if he doesn't when it comes to dealing with his sister... “And if I tell you to stick it up your cunt? Are you going to have me thrown into the Black Cells just like our brother? What makes you think you're entitled to such power? I seem to recall it was Father – not you – who had our baby brother thrown into the cells...”

  
Cersei appears to consider her brother's statement despite already having prepared a barb of her own. “Father would never subject you to such a fate. You're all he's got left. So, no. I can, however, make you wish you and that little monster had never crossed me by making your deaths as slow and painful as Joffrey's. And I'll make no apologies of finding great joy in watching you both suffer such terrible fates.”

  
Jaime opens his arms in a gesture of arrogance. “Give the order, then! Kill the only two people in the Realm who give even the slightest shit about you!”

  
Cersei is deliberate in her silence, choosing to merely glare at her brother and watch him grow increasingly annoyed by her tactic. Eventually, “In time, dear brother. In time. For a day will come when you think yourself safe and happy, and suddenly your joy will turn to ashes in your mouth, and you'll know the debt is paid. As for Tyrion, the Gods shall hold his fate in their spiteful hands.”

  
“Not if I have anything to do with it,” Jaime threatens before turning on his heel and storming out of the chamber.

 

* * *

 

Brienne sits at the side of her bed, feeling as if she's going to be sick again. She'd been attempting to get a little rest with the hope that her nausea would eventually abate. Instead, it only lingered and grew into an obnoxious beast in her belly. Her stomach suddenly heaves, forcing the acrid taste of bile into her mouth and her muscled legs to carry her bulk to the privy in haste, where she violently expels what meager sustenance she's been able to consume in recent hours.

  
Afterwards, she surrenders before the privy, her legs suddenly feeling like a pair of lofty anvils. Brienne takes a few breaths to curb the frantic heaving of her chest. As she breathes, her thoughts drift upon the words spoken to her by Cersei only a week ago, on the day of King Joffrey's murder...but before she is able to fully dwell upon the Queen Regent's gnawing insinuation, however, Brienne is suddenly jarred from her reverie by the sounds of her bedchamber door opening and the heavy clanking of armor.

  
“Wench?”

  
Only one man was able to call her that and still have his kneecaps intact... “Ser Jaime?”

  
He frowns whilst standing in the doorway. “What in the Seven Hells are you kneeling before the privy for?” he asks before kneeling to join her. Jaime takes stock of her haggard appearance, remembering how she bore a similar look during Joffrey's wedding. Even her spirited sapphire eyes had lost some of their shimmer. He reaches to brush the back of his hand against her cheek. “You're still unwell, aren't you?”

  
Brienne averts his piercing gaze. “Nonsense. It's probably nothing.” She quickly changes the topic. “What are you doing here? How did it go with Tyrion?”

  
“I wasn't with Tyrion; he's unable to have visitors while the Crown chooses who will preside during the trial.” Jaime gently guides her face to look in his direction. “And anyway, while I've grown to reluctantly appreciate your stubbornness, now isn't the time to be so pig-headed. Perhaps I should send for a maester take a look at you?”

  
“N-no, that's--” she stammers before dry heaving in Jaime's direction. She immediately breaks out in a deep rouge afterwards. “Forgive me. You need to go, Jaime. I won't have you see me like this.”

  
Jaime grins while keeping her steady with his hand and stump. “That's not going to happen, my wench. Not now.”

  
Brienne raises a brow. “What do you mean?”

  
“It's why I'm here – well, one of the reasons, anyway. To keep you safe.”

  
The lady knight scoffs. “What did I tell you about me needing the shield of men, Jaime?”

  
Jaime's reply is urgent and firm. “You're not listening to me – There's a high probability that my sister is already plotting her revenge for what happened to her son. And you, Brienne, are quite possibly the target. Well, one of them, anyway. That is where I've been – attempting extend an olive branch to my sister, only to have her not only reject it, but accuse me of having a hand in King Joffrey's murder and making threats -- _'For a day will come when you think yourself safe and happy, and suddenly your joy will turn to ashes in your mouth, and you'll know the debt is paid.'_ were her specific words. I may not have my brother's intellect about most things, but Cersei made her intent fairly clear.”

  
Brienne merely gawks at him, much to Jaime's amusement. “My thoughts exactly.” he says with a wry smile before bringing his arm around her shoulder, his left hand finding her stomach and sending a shiver down her spine. "Is it your stomach still?" he asks.

  
The gesture forces Brienne's eyes to bulge, chin to wobble, and cheeks to flush with...something oddly primal despite being unable to put her finger on exactly what that something is.

  
He's looking at her with anticipation on his face, as if expecting to hear the answer to a question. “Why are you looking at me like that?” she asks, confused.

  
Jaime's hand is moving in slow circles around her midsection. “I asked you if you would allow me to accompany you to a proper maester, my lady; before that, I asked if it was still your stomach bothering you...”

  
“No, absolutely not. It is much too risky.” Brienne replies before pulling back from Jaime's partial embrace. “And do cease touching me. It's making me feel strange.”

  
Jaime can't help but grin. “That's called arousal, my wench. Surely you know by now what that feels like...”

  
“I assure you, the way I've been feeling lately, I'd hardly call it arousal, my dear Jaime. I...I can't properly explain it.” Brienne then wills herself to stand, straightens out her rumpled tunic and promptly excuses herself from the small privy.

  
“If you insist on being so stubborn, at least allow me to arm you as a precaution.” Jaime suggests.

  
Brienne turns to meet him, appearing to be mulling over his offer. Her eyes fall to the rich, ornate sword at his hip. “With that? I thought the idea was to attract as little attention as possible.”

  
Jaime briefly looks to his sword before meeting Brienne's gaze once more. “This?” he replies, grasping the hilt adorned with gold lion heads. “No. Walking around the city with this is just asking for trouble from some desperate smallfolk. I was thinking more along the lines of a far simpler blade – just as deadly in the right hand, but with none of the pomp.”

  
Brienne falls silent while she considers Jaime's offer, eventually replying, “If it will ease your mind, I suppose I have no choice. Go on, then.”

  
Jaime acknowledges her with a simple nod before leaving her to the tumultuous thoughts suddenly swirling about her mind...

 

* * *

 

Tyrion Lannister sits in the dank darkness of his cell deep in the bowels of the Red Keep, inhaling the putrid stench of death, piss and shit all around him. He hadn't bothered to put up much of a fight when two Kingsguard arrested him on Cersei's order the day Joffrey was murdered. Unlike his brother Jaime, Tyrion had never considered himself much of a fighter in the traditional sense, preferring rather to combat others in battles of wit rather than sword. Immediately upon his being taken into custody, Tyrion was charged with regicide and thrown into the aptly named Black Cells of the Red Keep, reserved for the most vile and dangerous prisoners, and forced to wait until his day of reckoning came.

  
 _I am only considered vile and dangerous simply because I was born a dwarf_ , he muses to himself in the pitch black stillness of his cell; he can't even see his hand in front of his face. _And that is the true reason I am down here. Not because I killed Joffrey, but because I am the glaring blemish upon my proud House..._

  
The creaking of the heavy wooden door opening brings Tyrion from within himself. A young man stands in the doorway holding a torch. It's the first person – and source of light – Tyrion has seen in a week, drawn to both like a moth to a flame. “Pod?” he asks in disbelief. “Pod, is that you?”

  
The squire nods before shutting the door with haste. “Aye, my lord. I've come to help you.” he whispers.

  
“Gallant boy. But you know--”

  
“I know you're not allowed visitors, my lord. I cannot be long here; I've come merely to give you some things.”

  
“Things?” Tyrion replies with interest. “Perchance, do these things include wine?”

  
Podrick digs into the pockets of his tunic. “I tried, my lord. But they took it from me. I did bring you these though; a quill and some parchment, almonds, a book, some duck jerky,” he surrenders the items to Tyrion only to reach back into a pocket of his breeches. “And some candles.”

  
Tyrion's sunken face bristles with gratitude. “A most noble effort. You're a good lad.” The dwarf tucks the items beneath his makeshift bed made of straw in the corner of the room. “...What are they saying about me up there?” he asks afterwards, both knowing and dreading the answer.

  
Podrick stands before his lord. “You're to stand trial in a fortnight, my lord.”

  
Tyrion sits, leaning his head back against the cold stone wall. “A fortnight? They do take great pleasure in milking my sanity for all its worth, don't they...” he muses before his tone dips suddenly. “Do you believe I murdered Joffrey?”

  
Podrick shakes his head. “No, my lord,” he replies before eventually breaking the silence. “...You didn't, right?”

  
“Gods no. Though I certainly will be the first to admit that the Realm is better without his pestilence, I had nothing to do with the outcome. He was both a Baratheon and a Lannister, which makes him my blood. Contrary to what other Houses believe of us, we Lannisters actually aren't too keen on the whole aspect of Kinslaying. Tell me, Pod, have the judges been chosen?”

  
The young squire doesn't break face with the Little Lion. “Aye. Your father, Lord Tywin, Lady Olenna and Lord Mace of House Tyrell.”

  
Tyrion ponders, unease filling him. “Outnumbered two to one, I see.”

  
“Pardon?”

  
“It is no secret that my father – and my sister for that matter – despises me. Lord Mace is about as useful as tits on a boar and will vote however my father tells him to. My only hope is Lady Olenna, who despite her moniker as Queen of Thorns actually possesses the holy trinity of brains, brawn and compassion.”

  
Podrick nods. “I'm to acquire a list of names from you, my lord. Anyone who will testify on your behalf.”

  
Tyrion rummages through the pile of straw for his quill and parchment, jotting down a list of potential witnesses before handing the parchment to Podrick.

  
The youth frowns upon reading Sansa's name to himself. “I'm sorry, my lord, but your wife is gone.”

  
Tyrion perks up. “Gone?”

  
“Aye. She hasn't been seen since the wedding.” Pod clarifies. “You think she--”

  
“No!” Tyrion booms, adamant. He calms himself. “...I'm sorry, Podrick. Forgive me. I did not mean to yell. What I meant to say is, while no one had more reasons to kill Joffrey than Sansa did, the girl is no assassin, by far. Of course...,” he falls silent for a pause, deep in thought. “...Now with the strange and sudden disappearance of my wife, it makes a guilty verdict all the more likely.”

  
“Any other witnesses, my lord?”

  
Tyrion waggles his finger at the parchment in Podrick's hand. “All there, my good lad.”

  
“Lady Brienne of House Tarth, Ser Bronn of the Blackwater and your brother, Ser Jaime Lannister... They will not grant you Ser Bronn as a witness, my lord. Said he's a known cutthroat and one of your closest associates. He's under investigation himself, my lord.”

  
“If what you're telling me is true, then that would eliminate both Lady Brienne and Jaime from that list as well, given the latter is my blood and the former is pledged to betroth him – or _was_ pledged to betroth him. Right after King Joffrey's wedding, in fact. I was to accompany them, but opted to stay here and protect my wife on their behalf.”

  
Podrick looks upon the dwarf with remorse. “Is there no one else, my lord?”

  
Tyrion, dejected, shakes his head. “Will they at least allow Jaime to see me one last time?” He stares long and hard at the ceiling of his cell with spiteful tears in his eyes, seemingly addressing the Gods themselves more so than Podrick. “At least allow me that much, you hateful, pious cunts!”

  
“I will ask, my lord.”

  
Tyrion looks upon his squire with a look of finality in his eyes. “These will be your final orders, Podrick Payne. Heed them, do you understand? Go and find my brother. Tell him I need him, urgently. After that, I want you to leave King's Landing before it's too late. Do not ask why, just do as your lord commands. Go.”

  
Podrick gulps back the lump in his throat, knowing what is being asked of him. “Y-yes, my lord. I will not disappoint you.” he vows before beginning for the door.

  
“Pod!” Tyrion exclaims, his scarred face growing tender. The squire turns to face his former lord. “There has never lived a more loyal squire. I mean that, truly.”

  
Podrick is only able to nod before forcing himself from the cold, dank room.

 

* * *

 

Jaime sits with the sellsword Bronn, discussing his convoluted future as a swordsman while waiting for Brienne to return from her visit to the maester he'd suggested she see – one not associated with the Red Keep or loyal to his sister, as he'd suspected both Qyburn and Pycelle had become – but the discussion quickly shifts to his brother Tyrion, who, Jaime reluctantly admits, he's yet to see in the week since Joffrey's murder.

  
“You two seem to have developed quite the rapport; do you think he did it?” Jaime asks of Tyrion.

  
Bronn pours himself some wine. “No. Sure, he hated the little twat, but poison's not his style. Then again, neither is murder. And anyway, while you're here belly achin' like a cunt about your future, there's a real chance your brother won't have a future to bitch about. 'Ave you been to see 'im yet?”

  
 _Gods, Tyrion, my dear brother...Forgive me_ , Jaime pleads to himself, suddenly filled with remorse. The scary thing being that Bronn was absolutely right.

  
“You know how I came into your brother's service?”

  
“Do enlighten me,” Jaime replies.

  
“I was his Champion during his trial by combat at the Eyrie, but only after Lady Arryn declared that the trial take place that day. You were actually his first choice. He chose you because he knew you'd ride day and night to come fight for him. You gonna fight for him now?”

  
“Maybe not with a sword, as my instincts are all wrong, but I can fight for him in other ways.” Jaime stands, his handsome face hard with determination. “If Lady Brienne returns while I'm gone, tell her to remain here in my chambers until I return. I want you posted at the door on sentry duty.”

  
“A lady, you said?” Bronn asks with decidedly lascivious interest. “What she look like?”

  
Jaime doesn't miss a beat. “A great pale giantess, broad shouldered, looks at swarthy men such as yourself with the intent of chopping your balls off and keeping them with the rest of her trophies.”

  
“Sounds like quite the woman... She yours?”

  
“As I am hers...” Jaime replies before fleeing his chambers.

  
  


* * *

 

Brienne trudges through the steady trickle of townsfolk flowing into the narrow streets of the city, her big paw dutifully fixed to the hilt of her blade. Thank the Seven, however, she hadn't had to wield it during her trek here to the aptly named Street of Chains, an area of King's Landing known for its skilled maesters. But given how she felt at the moment, Brienne doubts she'd be able to properly fend off a would-be assailant anyway. Fatigue, a feeling she rarely experienced thanks to her years of rigorous training, had all but sapped every drop of strength from her muscles. Even her bones felt heavy. And that was just from walking here – now she had to make the trek back to the Red Keep, running on nothing but fumes and adrenaline.

  
For a moment, she feels her stomach slosh about with nervous tension at the thought of having to tell Jaime, remembering the sliver of knowing, of hopefulness, that flashed across his features the moment his palm found her midsection. Despite his attempt at remaining coy, Brienne had seen it in his eyes – the excitement, the pride, the desire to see her blossom with the first of what he hoped were many additions to their pride at Casterly Rock. Truth be told, she'd envisioned that life for herself once, before the sniggering and brutality of girls and boys, men and women, about her looks forced her down a different path.

  
 _What will I tell him? Perhaps I shouldn't, at least not right away. Jaime has enough on his plate already dealing with Lord Tyrion's upcoming trial. I cannot get in between that..._ Brienne muses to herself, suddenly conflicted. She ceases her walking to lean against the rough wall, barely noticing the clawing of the rock into her strong back; her gaze is pensive and fixed to her boots. _But_ _it would be most dishonorable of me to withhold something so great from the man who is to be my husband; I would expect the same of him..._ Her gaze moves from her boots to the Red Keep towering atop the city in the slight distance, knowing Jaime is there waiting for her safe return to him.

  
Brienne swallows hard, knowing what must be done.

  
She has to tell him...

  
She must.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I know I'm evil for ending the chapter with a cliffhanger, but this IS Game of Thrones after all -- the show practically IDLES at cliffhanger; the books even more so! Apparently. Anyway, what do you guys think? Is the pitter-patter of tiny, sapphire-eyed lion cub paws in the cards for our favorite idiots in love?


	11. Eleventh Hour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime pays a visit to his imprisoned brother, prompting him to hammer out another deal with their father, Lord Tywin, much to Tyrion's chagrin; a new king takes his place upon the Iron Throne, ushering in a new sense of hope for the people of King's Landing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Damn guys, you all have been AMAZING! I can't thank everyone enough from the bottom of my muse! I seriously wasn't expecting people to like this story as much as they are. I'm blown away. Thanks for sticking with me, my lovelies <3!

Thanks in part to the persuasion of the sellsword Bronn, Jaime Lannister finds himself at the threshold of his brother's cell deep within the bowels of the Red Keep with only a simple torch to light his way forward. A mindless soldier guards the door, his identity masked by his helm. “I am Ser Jaime Lannister, here to see my brother.”

 

“Come to say goodbye, aye?”

 

“Hardly. Now open the door.” Jaime replies.

 

He steps into the dank room, big enough for two people and reeking of death and torment. Jaime was no stranger to either stench, never forgetting either for as long as he lived. His nose crinkles with offense, but he wills himself further inside. Jaime is barely able to spot the small silhouette of his brother through the dark, huddled in the corner, and feels his heart wrench.

 

“Tyrion?” he asks into the darkness.

 

“Most vulgar of you to have kept me waiting, Stranger.” Tyrion replies.

 

“It's Jaime, you lout – are you drunk?” questions Jaime.

 

“On darkness, perhaps. But not wine. Podrick already tried.” Tyrion deadpans. “I apologize for the mess. Had I known you were coming, I would have made sure to tidy up first.”

 

Jaime sits against a pillar, a grin on his face while taking stock of his surroundings with what little torchlight there is. “Not bad. Four walls, a pot to piss in, a bed – I was chained to a post and forced to sit and sleep in my own shit for a year, at the mercy of the elements.”

 

He can barely make out the wry grin on Tyrion's face.

 

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” Tyrion wonders.

 

“Maybe a bit,” replies Jaime. “Did I succeed?”

 

Tyrion's curls sway as he shakes his head.

 

“I'm sorry I did not come sooner, brother,” Jaime confesses, remorse filling his voice. “Lady Brienne has been ill and pig-headed about seeing a maester. But I was finally able to convince her. Besides that I...,” he falls silent for a moment to gather his courage. “I couldn't bear to see you this way. I know it is a selfish thought, and for that I apologize. It was actually the sellsword who lit the fire under my ass that convinced me to come. I guess he is good for something, after all, then.”

 

Tyrion gives a knowing nod. “Leave it Bronn,” he muses before backtracking to Brienne. “Is Lady Brienne still feeling unwell? I couldn't help but notice her looking a bit peaked at Joffrey's wedding feast, in addition to her belittlement at the tongue of our sweet sister. With that in mind, I suppose I shouldn't disclose the sensitive information regarding Lady Sansa.”

 

“I already know – she's not been seen since the wedding, and our sister is offering a knighthood to whomever brings her Sansa's head.” Jaime replies. “Given Lady Brienne's ailment, I do not wish to upset her condition further with this news.”

 

Tyrion nods. “A wise decision. Perhaps it would be better to wait until she's well again.”

 

Jaime shifts his position in effort to get comfortable. “Besides that, Lady Brienne has far more pressing matters at the moment given the discussion I had with Cersei earlier in the Great Sept.”

 

“Ah, and how is the Queen Mother of Madness?” Tyrion jests.

 

“How do you think? Her son died in her arms, covered in his own blood and vomit.”

 

Tyrion cocks a brow. “ _Her_ son...?”

 

“Don't.” Jaime warns. “Now do you want to hear what happened or not?”

 

Tyrion shrugs. “Why not. I could use the entertainment.”

 

Afterwards, Tyrion makes light of the fact that Jaime's account has him even more uneasy. “You know me to be a realist, Jaime. So you can trust me when I say I do not like my chances even more than before. The whole country believes me to be guilty of regicide; one of my three judges – our dear father – has wished me dead more times than I care to count, while another is a gutless peon who will vote however Father tells him to. My only hope therein lies with Lady Olenna. But I suppose it won't matter in the end if Cersei has anything to do with it – and she will. Probably conspiring a way to kill me and avoid a trial altogether as we speak.”

 

“Now that you mention it, she did express an interest.”

 

Tyrion injects his own sense of bleak humor into the discussion, “Should I turn around and close my eyes before I'm executed?”

 

“Depends,” replies Jaime with a shrug. “Did you do it?”

 

Tyrion grins, wiping the air with his hand. “The Kingslayer Brothers! Has a nice ring to it, don't you agree?”

 

Though Jaime has grown to despise his infamous nickname, somehow he can't help but smile warmly at his brother's use of the moniker.

 

“Are you really asking me if I killed your son?” Tyrion eventually asks.

 

“Are you really asking if I'd kill my brother?” Jaime responds before leaning inward towards his brother. “How can I help you?” he asks gently.

 

Tyrion looks up at him, an almost pleading look in his sunken blue eyes. “You could set me free.”

 

Jaime appears sympathetic, but is firm in his reponse. “You know I can't do that, brother.”

 

Tyrion averts his gaze elsewhere. “Then I suppose there's nothing more to say.”

 

Jaime stands and starts to pace, his voice sounding vaguely irritated. “What do you want me to do? Kill the guards with my wit and charm and sneak you out of the city in a box?”

 

Even in the slight tension, Tyrion is able to find humor in Jaime's words. “Wit and charm? Do forgive me, Jaime, but I believe that is _my_ field of expertise. That, and drinking. And women. I am the God of tits, wine, and charm!”

 

Jaime erupts with a hearty laugh in spite of the tense circumstances. “Fair enough, brother. I yield, I yield – to the God of Tits, Wine, and Charm!”

 

Tyrion takes a comical bow before the atmosphere eventually grows heavy once more. “It could actually work, you know...” the dwarf argues.

 

“We're not going to find out, so drop it, would you?”

 

Tyrion rolls his eyes. “Sorry, I'd forgotten. I wouldn't want you to do anything inappropriate!”

 

Jaime's brow hardens ever so slightly. “Inappropriate? You're accused of killing the king; freeing you is treason!”

 

“Except I didn't do it!” Tyrion hollers.

 

Jaime turns on his heel to confront his brother. “Which is why we're having a trial.”

 

“A trial,” Tyrion repeats, rolling his eyes again. “You have yet to grasp this, don't you? If the killer threw himself before the Iron Throne, confessed his crimes, and provided irrefutable evidence of said crimes, it still wouldn't matter to Father or to Cersei! While Father at least acknowledges that I am a Lannister, Cersei won't rest until my head is on a spike...”

 

“You know I'd never let that happen, brother,” Jaime assures him. “I'd fall on my sword before I ever let harm come to you.”

 

But Tyrion isn't so convinced. “Do not waste your life on my account. It's futile no matter what you say you'll do to protect me.”

 

Jaime is suddenly struck with an idea, the nature of which compels him to his feet. “All is not lost, Tyrion... I think I may have an idea.”

 

“Do I want to know what it is?” Tyrion replies.

 

“Probably not. But it's better than the alternative.” Jaime replies before promptly leaving the room.

 

Tyrion didn't like the sound of this.

 

\-----

 

It is all the usually hardy Brienne can do to keep herself upright, having finally made the trek back to Jaime's quarters atop the White Tower. To her confusion, Jaime is nowhere to be found. Instead, she's confronted with the sight of a rather slimy-looking bearded man casually treating himself to food and drink at the table, the sight and smells of which immediately agitate Brienne's stomach and force her to make haste for the privy, much to the man's confusion and slight amusement. When she returns to the main chamber, her face cast in a light sheen of sweat and blush, Brienne promptly questions the swarthy looking man on Jaime's whereabouts. “It's urgent that I speak to him in private...” She blushes, having forgotten to ask the man his name. “Forgive me. You are...?”

 

The man extends his hand. “Ser Bronn of the Blackwater, my lady. You must be Brienne. I have my orders to keep watch over you until Jaime returns from visiting the Little Fucker in the black cells.”

 

Brienne bristles at Bronn's uncouth tongue. “You're speaking of a highborn, ser. He is Lord Tyrion of House Lannister, and you will refer to him as such while in my presence.”

 

Bronn simply grins. “There's the look the Kingslayer was talking about – like you wanna chop my balls off and add them to your other trophies. I'd like to see that...”

 

Brienne glares coldly at him before settling on Jaime's bed in an effort to stay as far away from the grimy-looking man as possible. “Don't test me.”

 

\-----

 

She remembers the chaos as if it'd happened only yesterday – the looks of horror on the faces of family and guests alike, the whispering... The site of King Joffrey clawing bitterly at his throat, lips blue, skin blotchy and purple, and the sounds of his mother screaming as if she were in her death throes as her son convulsed and died before her very eyes...

 

It was glorious. An all too satisfying end to what had otherwise been a nightmare from which Sansa Stark believed she would never wake from.

 

She'd escaped to the harbor with Ser Dontos just as the chaos begun to spiral out of control, but her relief quickly turned to apprehension at the sight of Lord Petyr Baelish, a man known far an wide as an opportunist enigma with loyalties to no one but himself.

 

And yet, in what Sansa can only describe as a cruel twist of fate, she finds herself his passenger aboard his ship at sea as they make their way for The Eyrie, where Lord Baelish is to marry her aunt, Lady Lysa Aryyn, sister to Catelyn Stark and widow of Lord Jon Aryyn.

 

With a deep sense of regret, Sansa's thoughts drift back to her mother's Sworn Sword, Brienne of Tarth and how horrible she had treated the lady knight that day in the Godswood. Brienne had only wanted to help her, Sansa knew that now, but had been so angry at the time for the losses of her mother and brother that she'd felt obligated to put the blame on anyone associated with Robb or Catelyn in spite of knowing their deaths couldn't have possibly been predicted regardless of who was protecting them at the time. She stares at the canopy of her bed, a lone tear streaking its way down her face.

 

_I hope you will find it in your noble heart to forgive me, Lady Brienne, for I am in desperate need of the courage that flows through your veins..._

 

\-----

 

As night begins to fall over King's Landing, Jaime stands before his father inside his chambers atop the Tower of The Hand in a last ditch effort to stop Tyrion's trial from proceeding.“You do realize this whole thing is a sham? Cersei will pull every little string she's able to get her hands on and make it so that Tyrion's chances of a fair trial become even more minuscule than they already were.” Jaime argues. His father, always cold, justsits and stares at his son. Jaime grits his teeth, slamming his hand down on Tywin's desk in anger, “You know her just as well as I do – don't try to deny that she's wanted Tyrion dead since the second of his first breath!”

 

“I assure you she will not interfere with the trial or its proceedings. I've already made it perfectly clear to her my intent should she tamper with any part of the proceedings.”

 

Jaime appears more than skeptical. “If you think that will stop her, perhaps you don't know her as well as I thought you did.”

 

Tywin's reprimand is firm. “Do not think I will cease the trial merely on account of your pity for your brother – he will stand trial regardless of your feelings on the matter for killing his king!”

 

“As did I!” roars Jaime with defiance, eyes fierce. “Do you know the last order the Mad King gave me? To bring him _your_ head! I saved your life so you and that vengeful sister of mine could kill my brother?!”

 

Tywin's face remains unreadable of emotion. “It will be justice.”

 

“ _Justice?_ ” Jaime parrots with emphasis. “Explain to me how the wrongful accusation and subsequent execution – because that _is_ what you will do to him – is justice.”

 

“I will be performing my sworn duty as Hand of the King. If Tyrion is indeed found guilty, he will be punished accordingly.”

 

“He'll be executed, you mean to say.” Jaime corrects.

 

“He will be punished _accordingly._ ” restates the elder Lannister with the slightest hint of irritation in his voice.

 

“Once you said that family lives on – all that lives on. You told me about a dynasty that would last a thousand years... What happens to that dynasty should Tyrion die, if I should die? What happens to your name? Who will carry the lion banner into future battles? Kevan? Your nephews? Others whose names I don't even remember?”

 

“What happens to my dynasty if I spare the life of my grandson's killer, hmm?” Tywin counters.

 

Jaime points to himself with authority. “It survives – through _me_ , and through Tyrion! We're all you have left, whether you wish to admit it or not.”

 

Tywin remains aloof. “On the contrary – there is still time for your sister to birth a suitable heir once her marriage to Ser Loras of House Tyrell is properly consummated.”

 

“She'll kill him well before he has time to put a child in her.”

 

“Get on with it, Jaime -- what are you proposing?” Tywin commands, having grown tired of the feeble back and forth with his eldest son.

 

“My part of our prior arrangement still stands – I will pledge myself to Lady Brienne of House Tarth, therefore securing an alliance with the Stormlands and sire children bearing the name Lannister. I will take my place as Lord of Casterly Rock and Lord Paramount of the Westerlands. In exchange, you agree to allow Tyrion to live.”

 

Tywin appears to mull it over for a few moments. “...Done. On one condition.”

 

“I'm almost afraid to ask,” quips Jaime, knowing nothing ever came easy when it came to dealing with members of his family.

 

Tywin, however, is not amused by his son's wit. “I will only grant him mercy if he agrees to join the Night's Watch. He is prohibited from joining you at Casterly Rock.”

 

Anything, even having to don The Black, was better than the alternative, Jaime surmised. “You have my word.”

 

“And you have mine. However, we're not finished just yet.”

 

Jaime faces his father once more.

 

“While you were granted an extension of your duties as Lord Commander of the Kingsguard in light of the recent circumstances, from this moment on you are no longer a brother of the Kingsguard, nor its Lord Commander. Surrender your white clock immediately. A new Lord Commander shall be chosen come morning, after Prince Tommen's coronation as king.”

 

Jaime unbuckles the clasps of his white clock without protest, handing the heavy cloak to his father. And with it, the tainted shackle he'd been seemingly tethered to for much of his life. For Cersei. Everything he'd ever done or been had been for Cersei and the love he believed they shared. He'd secretly sired her three children, born out his love for her, only to be shunned away from their lives and forgotten. He'd joined the Kingsguard in order to remain close to her; he'd slit the Mad King's throat not just for the safety of the people, but for Cersei's own. Everything had been for her. 

 

But not anymore, and hadn't been ever since Brienne of Tarth, in her ever righteous heart of compassion and courage, opened Jaime's eyes to the man he'd always envisioned himself becoming as a child, before the white cloak, before the poison that was his sister; a man of courage and stout of heart, protector of the Realm, proud father to his children, loving husband to his wife...

 

Around her, he'd felt as if he could be all these things and more. And was. To her. To himself.

 

Tywin continues amidst Jaime's reverie. “Once the testimony is concluded, Tyrion will be allowed the chance to speak. He will plead for mercy. At the conclusion of the trial, he will be shipped off to Castle Black and you will marry Lady Tarth with me as your witness; you will send a raven from Casterly Rock once Lady Tarth's pregnancy is confirmed. Are these terms understood?”

 

“Perfectly.” Jaime replies, managing a simple nod before being dismissed from his father's chambers.

 

On the way back to Tyrion's chambers, Jaime takes a moment to ponder the lengths at which he's gone for his family throughout the course of his life – the lengths he's gone to please his sister, saving his father's life and the lives of the Realm by slaying Mad King Aerys, and now, his brother... And what did he have to show for such sacrifice? The people called him Ser Jaime Lannister to his face, only to whisper Kingslayer, Oathbreaker, and Man Without Honor behind his back; his sister betrayed his trust; his father was only interested in preserving his legacy... It was Jaime's hope that his brother would at least express some kind of gratitude, some form of compassion in thanks for his efforts.

 

Eventually, Jaime makes the return to Tyrion's cell, where he meets once again with his brother, who is immediately suspicious of the newfound hope in his older brother's blue eyes. “Nothing good has ever happened when you've had that look on your face, dear brother. What atrocity have you committed this time?” Tyrion deadpans.

 

Jaime kicks away some loose straw and kneels on the cold stone ground. “Just shut up and listen to me – you're going to be found guilty. When you are, you need to enter a formal plea of mercy and ask to be sent to The Wall. Father has agreed to it. He will spare your life and allow you to join the Night's Watch.”

 

“Ned Stark was promised the same thing, and we both know how that turned out.” Tyrion counters.

 

“Father is not Joffrey. He's vowed to keep his word.”

 

“How do you know?”

 

“Do you trust me, Tyrion?” Jaime asks.

 

“What are my options?” jokes Tyrion, much to Jaime's apparent chagrin. "Of course I do, Jaime. You're all I've got in this mad world."

 

“Then just do as I tell you and keep your mouth shut from now on, understand? This will all be over soon.”

 

Tyrion scrunches his scarred face in confusion. “I'm sorry, what am I supposed to be grateful for again? The opportunity to live and die at the Wall as punishment for a crime I did not commit?”

 

Jaime rises in anger. “That's right! Would you rather _die_ for a crime you did not commit?!”

 

Tyrion eludes his brother's question. “...That deal you made, it was everything Father wanted. You do see that? He gets you as his heir. The future Lord of the Rock. And he ships me off to Castle Black, out of sight at last. All so perfect.”

 

Jaime shakes his head in disbelief. “What in Seven miserable Hells is with this family?!” he asks, more to himself than to Tyrion. “Can't you just be grateful that I was able to convince Father to spare your life?”

 

“I most certainly am. I just disagree with the way in which my supposed freedom was secured is all. You've always been a slow learner, brother. And if you've yet to know by now how our Dear Father and Sweet Sister operate, then perhaps you're right to be called the Stupidest Lannister.”

 

Jaime's expression turns fierce. “Then I suppose there's nothing more that needs to be said, is there?!” he growls, stomping off for the cell door. 

 

* * *

 

 

Jaime eventually returns to his chambers to find Bronn standing guard outside his door. The mercenary warns that the “big woman” isn't feeling well and is attempting to sleep, having threatened to break his face if he didn't leave her be.

 

_That's my wench,_ Jaime thinks with an almost proud grin. “She gave you The Look, didn't she?” 

 

“Aye. Thought my bawls were gonna crawl up me ass. A hardy one, she is.” Bronn replies with more respect than fear towards Brienne. His lips curl into a cock-eyed grin. “...You two fuckin'?”

 

It takes Jaime everything he's able to muster to keep from lunging for the sellsword's throat and choking the life clean out of him. “I won't dignify that with an answer. Remain here until morning.”

 

Jaime enters his chambers to find Brienne, sure enough, curled atop the bed still fully clothed and wearing her heavy boots. But Jaime dares not to attempt to strip her of the heavy footwear lest he rouse her awake, and so opts to settle as gently as he's able atop the bed to join her. Jaime lays behind her still dressed in   his heavy armor, his arms drawing around her waist, left hand coming to rest atop hers as it lay pressed against her midsection. “I'm sorry for keeping you, love.” he whispers before moving to kiss her ear.

 

She stirs, if only for a moment, to snuggle back against Jaime's front, finding comfort in his presence.

 

Jaime nuzzles the back of her neck with tenderness. “Rest now, my lady. We can tell each other about all that happened this wretched day in the morning...”

 

Brienne forces one eye open, knowing she must tell him; her mouth opens, poised to speak, yet the words sputter and die well before they reach her tongue. Instead, she can only draw a deep breath before succumbing once more to the pull of glorious sleep and Jaime's arms around her.

 

* * *

 

The next morning rises to much pomp and circumstance as Prince Tommen is crowned the new king of the Seven Kingdoms within the Great Hall, much to the renewed hope of the people of King's Landing after the tyranny that was King Joffrey Baratheon the First. While Jaime shares the hope of the people, he does so with cautious optimism – the boy possesses a calm, gentle heart and temperament, to be certain, but that was exactly what Jaime was afraid of – it wouldn't take long for both his mother and his grandfather to corrupt his heart and turn him into another incompetent sadist like Joffrey had been. After Tommen's coronation concludes and the witnesses begin to disperse, Jaime ascends the stone steps to kneel before his new king as he sits atop the Iron Throne bearing the familiar crown of stags in honor of House Baratheon. “Your Grace.”

 

Tommen, in view of the people, as well as his grandfather and mother, conducts himself in a manner befitting of the king he has now become. “Rise, Ser Jaime.”

 

Jaime rises, taking a non-threatening step towards his bastard. “How are you?” he asks.

 

“I'm good,” smiles Tommen. “Grandfather Tywin has promised to teach me everything he possibly can.” Then the youth's eyes turn fierce with determination. “The Seven Kingdoms have suffered enough. I will not make the same mistakes of my predecessor. The people of King's Landing will have a voice so long as I'm able to draw breath.”

 

“May your reign be long and peaceful, Your Grace. I will help in any way I possibly can.”

 

“You have my utmost gratitude, Ser Jaime. I shall take your words under advisement in the near future.”

 

 _Not bad... First day on the job, and he's already leagues ahead of that miserable cunt Joffrey_ , muses Jaime, his heart swelling with an odd sense of... bittersweet, paternal pride. Bittersweet if only due to the fact that he'd been forced to watch the child grow up from a distance his entire life. The boy has grown into a rather fine young man; proper, compassionate, with none of the ego, nor the malevolent tendencies of his brother. Looking at him in this moment, so regal and just, it was hard for Jaime to question the very real possibility that King Tommen of the Houses Baratheon and Lannister, First of His Name, King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, would make for a fine king, indeed.

 

Hours after Tommen's coronation, however, Jaime's hope quickly turns into a nauseating feeling of dread when he's forced to bear witness to the swearing in of the next Lord Commander of the Kingsguard hand-picked by Lord Tywin himself – The Mountain, Gregor Clegane, Tywin's self-proclaimed rabid cur and unbeknownst to both the Lannister patriarch and his heir apparent, his daughter's loyal bodyguard and lover. Watching the ceremony, it's all Jaime can do to keep from exploding in a fit of rage, seeing Gregor's ascension as a grave injustice to everything he has given to the prestigious organization in an attempt to return the once shining pillar of the Realm to its former glory under Mad King Aerys.

 

“So this is where the Kingsguard is going, is it? Straight down the privy into further madness?” asks Jaime to his father afterwards. “A kingslayer doesn't hold a candle to the atrocities of that – that _thing!_ I wouldn't doubt him to feast on babies fresh from the womb for supper!” 

 

Tywin appears hardly amused by his son's witty jibe. “The day-to-day operations of the Kingsguard are no longer your concern, my son. You should rest easy to know that King Tommen will be safe under the watchful eye of Ser Gregor.”

 

“Surely you're jesting, Father. Seven Hells, even his brother has more semblance of a brain than he does! I'm not even certain he can speak complete sentences without flying into a fit of rage! Yet, this is the person you best trust to protect your grandson?” Jaime argues.

 

“It is no longer any of your concern. Return to your chambers.”

 

Jaime tenses, his jaw clenching shut in attempt to keep quiet about the atrocity being committed before his very eyes, only to promptly turn on his heel and begin for the large doors knowing nothing but madness will come from challenging the elder Lannister.

 

He cools down while on the way back to his chambers atop the White Sword Tower, only to find Brienne and Bronn waiting outside for him, much to both his relief and his concern. “Wench? Feeling better I see. What are you doing out here with Bronn?” asks Jaime, moving to embrace Brienne; at the last second, however, he remembers the presence of the sellsword, grinning at present with the same dirty context common amongst those in his profession, and promptly retracts from the towering lady of the Sapphire Isle.

 

“I'm afraid these aren't your chambers anymore, pretty boy. The Big Fucker rules the roost now.” says Bronn of Ser Gregor in his typical colorful dialect. 

 

Brienne clears her throat, her voice filling with controlled urgency. “May I speak with you in private, Ser Jaime? What I have to tell you cannot wait.”

 

Jaime nods and the pair begin to walk; Bronn attempts to trail them, but is quickly stopped by Jaime: “Your services aren't required here; stand guard outside of the maiden's quarters until she and I return.”

 

“For free?”

 

Jaime glares at the greedy mercenary. “You'll get it – a Lannister Always --”

 

Bronn holds up his hand, palm facing Jaime's face. “Don't say it. Don't even fuckin' say it. Heard that shit enough from Lord Tyrion. I'll go.”

 

Jaime and Brienne take the privacy of the first empty guest chamber they stumble upon and promptly lock the door behind them. Jaime embraces her as best as he's able against the door, his thin lips tracing down the strength of her neck. “Gods, wench, you don't know how relieved I am to know you're finally feeling better...” he mutters against her skin between kisses and licks to the nape of her neck.

 

Brienne uses the strength of her arms to force Jaime to come from her. “You're insatiable – surely you can cease long enough for me to tell you what transpired at the maester's yesterday...?”

 

Jaime straightens himself out. Clears his throat. “Forgive me, my love. I thought you'd meant something else  because of the presence of the sellsword.”

 

Brienne draws a breath, preparing herself to speak; the moment she does so, however, her words fall on deaf ears as the sounds of the bells chiming from the Great Sept of Baelor suddenly fill the air. She watches as Jaime's eyes flare open in surprise. “What is it, Jaime?”

 

Jaime swallows hard, fear and outrage gathering in his heart as he heads towards the window, looking in the direction of the Great Sept. “They lied...! Tyrion's trial wasn't to start for a fortnight!”

 

“So what do the bells mean?” Brienne asks, feeling rather sheepish afterwards.

 

Jaime clenches his hand into a tight fist, eyes dark and pensive. “It means his trial is about to commence.” He turns to take hold of Brienne's hand. “Listen to me carefully, Brienne. Return to your quarters and do not leave them until I've returned. Cersei will most likely be present during the trial. It's best if you stay out of her line of sight. Do you understand?”

 

Brienne is only able to nod in acknowledgment before feeling Jaime's lips brush against hers.

 

“This will all be over soon, my wench. I promise.” Jaime assures her before exiting the room.

 

She slumps down on the bed, only to sigh as her hand instinctively shields her stomach...

 


	12. Wild-Hearted Son

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyrion Lannister's trial begins; Jaime finds comfort in Brienne.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What can I say? I'm on a roll with getting the chapters out, my lovelies! While it usually takes me several days to type up a draft, flesh it out, proofread, etc, I knocked this chapter out in just a couple days. Yay motivation! 
> 
> I have some wonderful (or is it bittersweet?) news to share with all of you -- thanks to some words of encouragement from my galpal, WeirdDaydreamingFangirl and the pull of my muse, I've decided that this story will make up the first book in what will at least be a duology and a trilogy at most. She (and my muse) encouraged me to make it such due to the shear scope I have planned for the story, while my muse is pestering me to write a couple of other JB stories in the break between this fic and the next one in the series. Now here comes the bitter part -- with the decision to turn this baby of mine into twins or triplets, that means this one will probably be ending soon. I know, I know! Hey, you'll thank me for it later, my lovelies!

Jaime Lannister walks through the bowels of the Red Keep, accompanied by two Lannister soldiers, en route to Tyrion's cell. Even with the deal between he and his father in place, Jaime can't seem to shake the heavy feeling of dread in his bones, as Tyrion's fate rests squarely on himself and whether or not he will be able to keep his mouth shut long enough for everything to go according to plan.

 

Jaime and the soldiers step inside Tyrion's cell. It's shrouded in darkness save for the soft glow of a tiny candle in the corner, where Tyrion is curled up with book in hand. He's oddly relaxed for someone charged with murdering the king of the Seven Kingdoms, Jaime thinks. Please, just keep your mouth shut, brother...

 

“Tyrion. It's time.” Jaime announces.

 

The dwarf looks up from his tome, casual-like. “So it is, brother. So it is.” He closes his book and stands, wrists together in front of himself.

 

Jaime gulps back the palpable fear clawing at his chest before signaling for the soldiers at his side to secure his brother.

 

“Shackles, really?” asks Tyrion to his brother.

 

“Father's orders, I'm afraid.” Jaime replies.

 

“Right, we mustn't disappoint Father. And I am a monster, after all. Best to keep me chained like the beast I am.” Tyrion replies with sarcasm before looking up at the soldiers. “Well, let's get on with it, gentlemen. Lead the way to the grand spectacle.”

 

As Tyrion is eventually escorted into the Great Hall where the trial is to take place, Jaime stands aside, watching as his brother is heckled by the crowd in attendance, bristling at ones mentioning of “Kingslayer!”, and brought before King Tommen who sits atop the Iron Throne, surrounded by Ser Gregor Clegane and Ser Meryn.

 

Tommen stands and the crowd quickly falls into silence as they await their king's proclamation. “I, Tommen of the Houses Baratheon and Lannister, First of my Name, King of the Andals and the First Men, and Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, do hereby recuse myself from this trial. Tywin of the House Lannister, Hand of the King, Protector of the Realm, will sit as judge in my stead. And with him Lady Olenna and Lord Mace of the House Tyrell. And if found guilty may the gods punish the accused.”

 

After Tommen's announcement, he calls upon the three judges who will be overhearing Tyrion's case. The panel take their seats and Tywin begins the trial in earnest. “Tyrion of the House Lannister, you stand accused by the Queen Regent of regicide. Did you kill King Joffrey?”

 

Tyrion is brisk in his reply: “No.”

 

“Did your wife, the Lady Sansa of House Stark?”

 

“She would never.”

 

“How would you say he died, then?” questions Tywin calmly.

 

Tyrion attempts to inject some humor into his answer, “Choked on his pigeon pie, maybe? It _was_ dry. King Joffrey said as much.”

 

His jest falls on deaf ears, forcing Tywin to press the attack. “So you would blame the bakers, then?”

 

Tyrion shrugs. “Or the pigeons. Just leave me out of it.”

 

From his seat at court, Jaime shakes his head with a troubling sigh. _Just keep your mouth shut, you fucking idiot_ , he scolds to Tyrion within his mind.

 

The Crown calls it's first witness, Ser Meryn Trant, a known sycophant of both King Joffrey and Cersei Lannister. “--He slapped the king across the face and called him a vicious idiot and a fool. It wasn't the first time the Imp threatened Joffrey. Right here in this throne room, he marched up those steps and called our king a halfwit. Compared His Grace to the Mad King and suggested he'd meet the same fate. And when I spoke in the king's defense, he threatened to have me killed.”

 

Tyrion takes offense. “Oh? Why don't you tell them what Joffrey was doing when this happened, Ser Meryn!” The dwarf turns to the crowd. “He was pointing a crossbow at Sansa Stark while you, Ser Meryn, were acting like the vicious, craven fool you are, tearing at her clothes and when she struggled, you proceeded to BEAT her like a dog!”

 

The crowd erupts in outrage, but not at the actions of Ser Meryn, but from Tyrion's accusations, believing his account to be a fabrication. Before things can further spiral, however, Tywin's resolution is prompt. “Silence!” he calls to the ruckus crowd before addressing his son. “Hold your tongue, Tyrion. You will not speak unless called upon, do I make myself clear?”

 

Tyrion nods.

 

The Crown calls its next witness, Grand Maester Pycelle, another of Cersei's followers. Jaime is unsure of just how much more of this farce he can watch and still keep quiet about the obvious bias against his brother.

 

“...Basilisk Venom, Widow's Blood, Wolfsbane, Essence of Nightshade, Sweetsleep, Tears of Lys, Demon's Dance, Blind Eye--”

 

Pycelle is promptly interjected by Lady Olenna. “Gods, you've made your point. Get on with it, if you will. I'll simplify it for you, Grand Maester – in essence, you house a large quantity of virulent poison in your store, correct?”

 

“That's right. But my stores were plundered, my lady.”

 

“By whom?”

 

Pycelle glares at Tyrion. “By the accused, Tyrion Lannister, my lady, after he had me wrongfully imprisoned. I believe he used the opportunity to sack my wares.”

 

It's Lord Mace Tyrell's turn to question the witness. “Grand Maester, you examined King Joffrey's corpse, did you not?”

 

The lecherous maester nods.

 

“Without question, would you say it was in fact poison that killed the king?” Mace asks.

 

“Without question, my lord.” Pycelle moves to take something from the pouch on his robe, and holds it before the court. “This was found on the body of Dontos Hollard at the harbor, my lord. Dontos was the king's fool. He was seen sprinting with Sansa Stark in tow towards the harbor just moments after the tragedy started. She wore this necklace on the day of the wedding. Residue of a rare and terrible poison known as The Strangler was found inside. It is a poison few in the Seven Kingdoms possess.”

 

“And was this one of the poisons stolen from your store?” asks Mace.

 

“It was, my lord.”

 

Olenna appears doubtful. “Well then, perchance you care to explain why, if this poison is so rare and terrible, you would even conceive the thought of selling it at your shop, Grand Maester? That is an open invitation to madness, is it not?”

 

Pycelle attempts to backtrack. “Well, you see m-my lady it is quite e-expensive...”

 

Jaime can't help but grin. _She caught you, didn't she? Grey sunken cunt..._

 

Olenna dismisses him. “That's hardly an answer. Perhaps next time you will care to do better, Grand Maester. Dismissed.”

 

“Be that as it may, it was still used to strike down the most noble child the gods ever put on this good earth.” Pycelle utters before stepping down.

 

Jaime's expression sours at the sight of the Crown's next witness, his own sister. It's all he can do to keep from lashing out from his place at court at her as she tells lie after lie about their baby brother with a straight face and contempt in her voice. “Shortly before the Battle of Blackwater Bay, I confronted Tyrion about his plans to put Joffrey on the front lines. As it turned out, when the attack came, Joff insisted on remaining at the battlements. He believed his presence would inspire the troops. I was never more proud of my son than I was in that moment... And now he is gone...”

 

“Thank you, Your Grace, for the courage of your testimony.” says Mace with sympathy.

 

As Jaime watches her step from the podium, Cersei turns to look in his direction, a calculating smirk on her face.

 

After hearing Lord Varys' testimony against Tyrion, Lord Tywin excuses the court. “We will adjourn for now. Toll the bells in an hour's time. Have the accused escorted back to his cell.”

 

* * *

 

 

With Tyrion under strict surveillance and prohibited from receiving visitors, Jaime returns to Brienne's chambers, hoping her presence will help soothe his troubled mind. Bronn stands guard at the door.

 

“How'd the Little Fucker do?” he asks.

 

Jaime doesn't mince his words. “How do you think? I knew it was going to be a shitshow, but it has exceeded my expectations thus far.”

 

“Not good, eh?”

 

Jaime pinches the bridge of his nose in frustration. “Must I spell it out for you? Of course it isn't going well – and there was never a hope of it ever going well!”

 

Bronn pats the tense Lannister on the back, his eyes full of gleaming mischief. “Aye, I get that. You're obviously tense 'cause of Tyrion, so why don't you just go on in and have yourself a good romp with the Big Woman, eh? A good fuck always he--”

 

An almost feral growl rumbles deep in Jaime's throat suddenly, his hand clutching the collar of the sellsword's tattered green jerkin. “Shut your mouth! I hear you talk like that in my presence again and I'll cut your fucking tongue out!”

 

Much to Jaime's chagrin, the sellsword is still looking at him with that shit eating grin on his face. “Yeah, you're tense all right. Have a good one, Kingslayer.”

 

Jaime pushes him aside to enter Brienne's room. He slams the door, much to the former maiden's shock as she lay on her bed with her back facing him. She jerks up, startled, only to look over her shoulder to spot Jaime out of the corner of her eye. “Jaime? You look flustered. What's the matter?” she asks with concern.

 

Jaime meets her upon the bed, where they share in a rather languid kiss. A sigh escapes him afterward, his eyes upon her. “You're the only good to befall me this day, Brienne.” He moves to cup her strong cheek, his stump finding her midsection. He feels Brienne's strong arms encircle his waist, keeping their bodies steady.

 

Brienne stares at him with a knowing look on her pale face. “Something is troubling you. Is it the trial?”

 

Jaime frowns. “Among other things. But...” he shakes his head of the cobwebs. “I do not wish to think of them now,” he confesses, gazing long and hard at her, yearning filling him. “Just you. Us. This moment. And the moments to come...” He dips down to sample her lips once more, drinking from her until his mind sputters and forces his heart to spill its innermost desires to her. “...I dream of being able to love you without scrutiny, proud, unadulterated, and far away from here. I dream of the day of seeing you beautifully heavy with our children, of feeling them quicken within you, of being at your side when they come roaring into the world, bearing your strength and courage; being at your side as they grow up...”

 

Jaime holds her wide-eyed gaze in his own as the room descends into silence, his peace having been spoken; to Brienne's surprise, Jaime looks to be on the brink of tears. She pulls him as close against her body as she's able. “Jaime...” she utters against his shoulder as they roll across the bed and land in such a way that Brienne is on her back with Jaime pressed against her. Her big hand traces the indent of his chiseled cheek, chin quivering as she swallows back the words that threaten to spill forth. “I...I think I would like that. Very much so...”

 

The poignant smile on his face nearly brings Brienne to tears. It fills her with hope, a promise for the future to come, no matter what it may bring. His name falls from her lips a mere whisper before their lips merge once more to partake in tender exploration of each other. Jaime's hand traces across her breast, causing her to briefly wince at the sudden tenderness.

 

“Hit a tender spot, did I?” Jaime asks before stooping to kiss it beneath the thick leather of her jerkin.

 

Brienne winces once more before panic strikes her heart, forcing her to scramble to sit up even with Jaime's weight atop her. “Now is not a good time for this. Not while Lord Tyrion sits shackled in the bowels of the Red Keep.” she explains while hastily straightening herself out.

 

Jaime moves to the foot of the bed. “You're probably right. That was unworthy, forgive me.”

 

Brienne comes to stand. “You've done nothing to warrant my forgiveness, Jaime. You are only mortal.”

 

Jaime rushes to his feet, arms coming to draw passionately around Brienne's thick trunk. His fingers savor the feathery softness of her short blonde hair. “I intend to make it up to you once this farce has concluded and Tyrion's good name is no longer in doubt, Brienne. I promise.”

 

His heart soon sinks upon registering the dull tones of the bells chiming from the Great Sept, signaling both the recommencement of the trial and the end of his time together with Brienne. Jaime's lips find hers one last time before he forces himself to part from her.

 

* * *

 

Tyrion Lannister is brought once more into the Great Hall to the calls of _“Halfman!” “Monster!” “Kingslayer!”_ from the angry crowd in attendance. The Little Lion attempts to shield himself from the crowd's palpable outrage long enough to step atop the podium, but is unable to hold his tongue any longer, his voice booming from his place at the podium. “I wish to confess! I wish to confess!”

 

Tywin orders the crowd to silence. “You wish to confess?”

 

Tyrion doesn't break eye contact with his father. “I did it. I saved you...” He spins on his heel, still tethered to the podium to face the crowd. “I saved this city – and all of your _worthless_ lives!” he spits. “I should have let Stannis rape and pillage through this cesspool and kill you all – put you out of your misery!”

 

Jaime feels as if he will be sick, or do his brother the mercy of ripping his bloody tongue out. _Idiot. You fucking idiot!_

 

“Tyrion!” barks Tywin in an effort to get his son to come to grips with himself. “I asked you specifically if you wished to confess – is that still the case?”

 

Tyrion glares at his father. “Yes, Father. I'm guilty.” his voice turns into a roar unlike anything Tyrion's immediate family has ever heard. “GUILTY! Is that what you wish to hear?!”

 

Tywin remains collected. “You confess to poisoning the king?”

 

“No. Of that I am innocent. I'm guilty of a far more monstrous crime.”

 

 _Shut your mouth, you fool!_ Jaime clenches his jaw whilst some distance away from him, Cersei grins as she sits with the other ladies of court.

 

“I am guilty of being a dwarf.” Tyrion scowls.

 

Tywin appears slightly amused by his son's attempt at wit in spite of the severity of the circumstances. “You are not on trial for being a dwarf.”

 

Tyrion's blue eyes flare with long repressed grief and rage. “Oh yes I am – and have been my entire existence!”

 

Lord Mace speaks from his chair to Tywin's left. “Have you nothing to say for your defense, Lord Tyrion?”

 

“Nothing but this – I did not do it. I did not kill Joffrey...” he whirls around to face the crowd again, much to Jaime's absolute horror. “But I wish with every fiber of my being that I had! The closest that miserable little twat ever got to a reprimand was my five fingers slapping him across that smug face of his – and I relished in _every_ second of his pain!” His eyes find his sister amongst the court, “Trust me when I say that watching your vicious bastard die gave me more joy than a thousand whores!”

 

“Silence, Tyrion!” commands his father in outrage as the audience erupts.

 

“No!” spits Tyrion in reply, still facing the crowd, pulse throbbing in his neck. “I _wish_ I was the monster you all think I am! I _wish_ I had enough poison to kill the whole lot of you! I would gladly give my life to watch you all _swallow_ it!”

 

Tywin comes to his feet, voice full of finality. “Ser Meryn! Escort the prisoner back to his cell!”

 

“I will not give my life to your vicious whims, Father! Nor will I give my life for Joffrey's murder! And I know I will get no justice here, so I will allow the Gods to decide my fate – I demand a trial by combat!”

 

The Great Hall quickly falls into a collective of silence as Jaime feels his blood turn cold...

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jaime is gonna need some milk of the poppy after this is all said and done, no? Or Brienne cuddles...


	13. The Mountain Bteween Us I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tempers flare between brothers in the aftermath of Tyrion's declaration that he be judged in a Trial by Combat; passions erupt between Jaime and Brienne in light of the Crown's naming of its champion, while Tyrion is blessed with his own; a sword chooses its master.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back again, my lovelies! Back again with a behemoth of a chapter for your reading (hopefully) pleasure! This is a two parter out of necessity, as the first part alone clocks in at 15 pages and I didn't want to make it one HUGE chapter; part two is to immediately follow. Enjoy!

It's all Jaime can do to keep his voice from rising in absolute fury as he paces inside of his brother's cell. “You're unbelievable, do you know that? I make a deal with Father for you to keep your life, and remember telling you _specifically_ to keep your mouth shut. So what do you do? Go off on a godsdamned tangent about how you wished to poison the People and then call for a bloody trial by combat! Do you realize what you've done?!”

 

“You sound angry, dear brother.” Tyrion replies with his usual snark.

 

But Jaime is far from amused, his eyes fierce. “Shut up! That's not going to work this time. This isn't a joke! Not when you've single-handedly signed not only your own death warrant, but you've also sealed the fate of whomever decides to fight for you in the trial!”

 

“Nevertheless, it felt good to take that away from Father – you rule the Rock and he ships me off to Castle Black, out of sight at last. I wouldn't expect you to understand, Jaime. You've always been the Golden Son; Father's favorite. You've slayed a king, fucked your sister and fathered her children. Even lost your sword hand. None of it matters. You'll always be the Golden Son. And I will always be the Embarrassment.” Tyrion replies with a sense of cynical melancholy.

 

Jaime appears both distraught and skeptical. “That's horse shit and you know it. Have you ever bothered to question why Father thinks of you as such? And do not tell me it is only because you were born a dwarf.”

 

When Tyrion refuses to answer, Jaime helps to remind him. “It's always been your lifestyle – the whoring, the drinking, acting as if you don't give a shit. The day we arrived at Winterfell, I come in to your chambers to find you shitfaced in bed with three whores! Not only was that an embarrassment to our hosts, it was an embarrassment to House Lannister. And while I gather you've matured a bit since then – as have I – and done great things for the people of this city, I know you can do more. You possess a far keener intellect than I, brother. One even Father admires. Yet you're somehow convinced he only despises you because you were born different.”

 

“...And for killing Mother.” Tyrion adds with remorse.

 

“But both you and I know he has no proof your birth was the reason she died,” Jaime replies before joining his brother on the cold ground, arm drawing around his slight shoulders. “We loved Mother. Of that there was no doubt. But for Cersei and Father to blame you solely for her death is a completely misguided notion.” Jaime bends to kiss Tyrion's curls. “I know you are not to blame for our loss, brother. And so long as I am around, is that not enough?”

 

Tyrion looks up at his brother, his features soft. “Perhaps you are not the Stupidest Lannister after all, Jaime. Thank you for believing in me when all others won't,” he smiles. “...Does this mean I can count on you to fight for me in the upcoming trial?”

 

Jaime sighs, suddenly tense. “You know I would if my circumstances were different, brother. There would be no question. But as I stand now, I can't even fight my way out of a potato sack with my left hand, much less in a battle of life and death; my instincts are all wrong and my arm is still weak.”

 

Tyrion grins. “Where's your sense of adventure, brother? Even if you were to lose, imagine the look on Father's face as our family is snuffed out with a single swing of the sword.”

 

“Oh yes, when you put it that way, it is most tempting...” remarks Jaime with sarcasm. “But in all seriousness, I can't. Besides, I...” Jaime regathers his thoughts. “I made a promise to Lady Brienne. I refuse to break it.”

 

Tyrion nods with a hint of...Jaime isn't quite sure. “Love is more important than Family, I see.” he notes with slight bitterness.

 

“Don't!” Jaime growls. “Lady Brienne _is_ family, brother! _My_ family! Never forget that! Besides that, did you listen to _anything_ I said moments ago? You know better than anyone that I would fight to defend your honor, and for you to blatantly question that offends me! And let's not forget, none of this would be an issue right now if you hadn't exploded up there!”

 

“Right, I keep forgetting she is to bear your child. I wouldn't want you abandon your wife and child... In any case, I am confident that if Bronn fought for me once, he will fight for me again. Of course, should he win, I suppose I'll be in debt to him for the rest of my life.” Tyrion muses.

 

Jaime looks as if he's been touched by the icy fingers of The Stranger. “...What did you just say?”

 

“I said Bronn-”

 

Jaime shakes his head. “No, not that. Before that, about Brienne.”

 

“Has she not discussed this with you?” wonders Tyrion out loud. “I overheard Cersei's little talk with her during Joffrey's feast. She claimed to Lady Tarth that she was pregnant just by the way she looked at the time.”

 

Jaime frowns, suddenly light-headed, legs heavy and threatening to give way underneath him. “Seven Hells...”

 

Tyrion clambers to his feet, concerned by the sudden paleness on his brother's face. “Here. Perhaps you'd better sit.” he suggests, guiding him as best as he can to sit on a crate and gather his bearings. “Easy, Jaime. Easy.” Tyrion urges whilst watching as his brother takes deep breaths with eyes closed. “She hasn't told you....” the dwarf mutters.

 

Jaime's heart thunders in his chest while his mind swims with a plethora of emotions. He looks down at his brother, flabbergasted. “What you're saying doesn't make any sense, Tyrion. I know Brienne. Honor is in her blood. It's physically impossible for her to tell a lie or keep a secret. She would have told me if she were with my child.” 

 

“Well then, perhaps it was another one of Cersei's attempts at being clever. If Lady Brienne has not brought it to your attention, I would not dwell too much on it.” Tyrion advises.

 

“Right...” Jaime replies, his voice sounding dreamy. “Perhaps you are right...”

 

“Is there any news on who Cersei will be naming as the Crown's champion?” Tyrion asks, hoping to distract Jaime's thoughts. “I hope it is Ser Meryn. I would be able to die happy, watching as Bronn disembowels that sycophantic child beater.” he muses with great relish.

 

“Not a word.” Jaime replies, his thoughts still hazy. “But I'm certain we can rest assured knowing our sister is full of surprises.” he adds before rising to his feet in preparation for the door. He looks over his shoulder at his brother. “I'll go find Bronn for you.”

 

Cersei Lannister lies within her bedchambers, beneath the body of her lover, Gregor Clegane, spent and savoring the rush of having felt him climax within her. Gregor comes from her, only to lumber towards the table and pour them some wine. As they drink, Cersei begins to discuss her brother's upcoming trial by combat. “The moment that wretched little shit called for a trial by combat, I had already made up my mind about a champion. There isn't a man alive in the realm brave nor strong enough to even hope of challenging you, Ser Gregor.”

 

“As you command, my queen.” Gregor replies, his voice deep. “Who am I fighting?”

 

Cersei snickers in amusement,a curious finger tracing along her lover's coarse chest hair. “Does it matter?”

 

Gregor shares in his lover's amusement. “No. Not when they are already dead.”

 

* * *

 

Jaime's search eventually leads him to a posh King's Landing brothel, where he finds Bronn dressed in the clothes of a nobleman and surrounded by two naked prostitutes.

 

“Aye, if it isn't the Kingslayer!” Bronn greets with a grin, his hands kneading the asses of the two scantily clothed whores.

 

Jaime scoffs, visibly distraught by Bronn's choice of words, before flipping the women a couple of silver stags to encourage them to disperse. The pair snatch up their bribes and quickly leave the room. “New clothes, I see.”

 

“Always know how to make an entrance, don't you, pretty boy?” chides Bronn at the sudden loss of his company. He comes from the bed, fingers moving to tidy up his shirt. “Aye, do ya like' em? The gloves are doeskin.” grins the mercenary, having gone from his worn green jerkin and breeches to the fine garments of minor nobleman. “Softer than a virgin's thighs. So what're you doin' here? Come to see me off? Didn't reckon you Lannisters to be the prissy sentimental type.”

 

“Not exactly. Wait, what do you mean by 'come to see me off?'” asks Jaime.

 

“It means I'm gettin' the fuck out of this shithole. Your sister made arrangements for me to marry Lollys Stokeworth. Seeing as her sister Falyse is barren, Lollys is set to eventually inherit Castle Stokeworth.” he explains before his tone turns decidedly suggestive. “Which may happen sooner rather than later. You never know; ladies fall from their horses and snap their pretty little necks all the time. I've always wanted to live in a big castle.”

 

Jaime's mouth sours. “You and my sister deserve each other, truly.”

 

“You kiddin'? Not when she's got that freak pokin' her. I'm not a learned man, but instinct tells me that and the Crown's champion for the Little Fucker's trial are connected.”

 

“Whom did she name?” asks Jaime of his sister, fearing the worst.

 

“The Mountain,” Bronn replies. “No amount of gold in the world could get me to fight that freak. He's freakish big and freakish strong. And quicker than you'd expect of a man that size. I'd have a better chance against The Stranger himself than The Mountain.”

 

Jaime's heart sinks. “The Mountain... Seven Hells.” he mutters in disbelief. “I suppose you've just answered my question, then...”

 

“What's that?” asks Bronn with interest.

 

Jaime pinches the bridge of his nose. “Tyrion wished for me to bring you to him so that he may ask you to fight for him in the trial, noting how you fought for him in my stead at The Eyrie. He's willing to double whatever he was paying you beforehand.”

 

But Jaime's plea does little to sway the mercenary's heart. “Aye, it's true I fought for him once, but against The Mountain? I'm no learned man, but I know enough to know when I'm over my head. I pity the poor sod foolish enough to fight that beast, but it sure as fuck ain't going to be me.”

 

Jaime scowls at the swarthy mercenary. “Craven fool! So you would leave my brother to die, just like that?!”

 

“Aye, just like that. It's nothing personal, Kingslayer. I value my life just as much as you value your brother's. I just happen to value my life a bit more.”

 

Jaime whirls around to face the entry, furious.

 

“Ser Jaime!” calls Bronn. Jaime turns to meet him, visibly upset. “I am sorry it has to be this way. You may not believe a lowly sellsword like myself, being the pompous highborn cunt that you are, but I do mean that. I do like your brother, pampered little shit that he is; we had some good days together. Maybe we'll meet again sometime, eh?”

 

Jaime stiffens his jaw as he swallows hard, eyes fixed on Bronn who, in spite of his choice of words, actually appears sincere for once. Yet it's not enough for the Young Lion, who instead of offering parting words of his own, simply turns his back on the mercenary and leaves the room.

 

* * *

 

Brienne stands beside the window looking out at the ocean surrounding the city. She longs to be free of the capital and its repugnant atmosphere, and far away from this bloody castle. She longs for home, for Tarth. For Casterly Rock. Anywhere, so long as she is with Jaime. Her belly quivers with anxiety at the thought of beginning their new life as Lord and Lady Lannister, husband and wife, and of all the trials and tribulations that may come. She pushes back against her sudden nausea just as Jaime enters her chambers looking equal parts ambivalent and beside himself.

 

“Jaime?” she asks, crossing the room in great strides. “I heard about Tyrion. I'm sorry.”

 

“Do not be sorry. He did this to himself. If it weren't for the fact that he is my brother and we share a bond, I'd feel no pity for him. That said, I now know who will be fighting on the Crown's behalf during the trial, and now I've become even more fearful of my brother's fate.”

 

Brienne takes note of the fretful look on Jaime's face. “Who is to be the Crown's champion?”

 

“The Mountain, Gregor Clegane.” Jaime replies with a sense of unease. “I trust you know of him?”

 

Brienne nods, uneasy filling her. “I do. It is known that he is more monster than man, said to have committed unspeakable atrocities. It sickens me to know he was ever knighted.” She looks at him with sympathy. “I am sorry, Ser Jaime. It must be difficult for you to have to accept such dire circumstances.”

 

Jaime looks up at her. “I'd be lying if I said it wasn't difficult. I'd fight for him in a heartbeat.” His brow furrows, sharp with sudden anger. “Godsdamned that miserable cunt who took everything from me! I feel so fucking useless!”

 

Brienne moves to embrace him. “But you're not, Jaime. You hadn't a hand when you flung yourself into the bear pit to rescue me; I wouldn't be here if it weren't for your valor.”

 

Jaime sighs. “But this is different, Brienne. I am but half the man I used to be.”

 

Brienne cocks a pale blonde brow. “How is this different? While the opponents may be different, at the core it is still a battle of life and death.”

 

Jaime's face hardens. “Right. And it is still a battle I cannot fight, much less hope to win. How does my father expect me to be Lord of Casterly Rock as I am now? I cannot even beat a simple stable boy, and now that miserable sellsword in the service of my brother is in my sister's pocket!”

 

A trace of a smile flashes across Brienne's pale face. “Because you are not alone in this fight, Ser Jaime. I will be there, to aid you as your lady-wife and sworn sword.” she vows, pulling back some from Jaime, sapphire eyes drawn to the opulent sword at his hip. “Draw your blade.” she commands.

 

Brienne holds the weapon carefully, one hand around the hilt, while the other pays careful attention to the shimmering Damascus blade. Brienne places the blade at Jaime's feet and kneels. “Ser Jaime of the House Lannister. I, Brienne of Tarth, pledge myself to shield your back, keep your counsel, and do nothing that would bring you dishonor. I swear it by the old gods and the new.”

 

Jaime regards her with tenderness. “Arise, my lady.” he smiles before cupping her cheek, his lips ghosting across hers. “I hope you won't find me craven for saying so but...” He swallows hard. “I love you, Lady Brienne. Gods, do I love you...” Jaime's lips crash suddenly against hers, and for a moment, Brienne is forced to tighten her already white-knuckled grip around the hilt as Jaime's passion overwhelms her. “...Let's make a cub...” he utters whilst caught in the heat of passion pooling in his loins, lips against her ear.

 

“Cub?” Brienne asks.

 

Jaime presents to her with a suggestive look on his face. “Yes love. I am a Lion of Lannister, and you are to be my Lioness, so a pride of sapphire-eyed lion cubs is what we shall have.”

 

Brienne can't stop herself from turning bright red on account of his proposal. One that she nevertheless finds to be rather endearing despite her apparent embarrassment. “You certainly have a keen way with words, Jaime.” she replies with a brief smile, her big hands resting against his chest. “...But I...I'm not so sure now is the right time...”

 

Jaime strokes her cheek. “Perhaps... But I hope you will allow me to love you just the same...” he murmurs, nuzzling the tip of her nose with his own.

 

Their lips meet in a decidedly languid kiss before Brienne parts from him long enough to return the Valyrian steel blade to the sheathe at Jaime's hip. Her arms draw around him once more, big hands caressing his upper back. Her pale blonde head rests atop his shoulder. “We will love each other, Ser Jaime... In time. Once your brother is acquitted and we are far away from here. Then, we may have as many starry-eyed lion cubs as we desire.” she smiles.

 

Jaime closes his eyes, remorse filling him. “I wish that were true about my brother, Brienne. But there is not a soul in this world who would dare fight to defend my brother's honor against that beast, especially since most of the realm believes him to be guilty of regicide.”

 

Brienne comes from him, blue eyes shimmering with resolve and virtue. “I will be your brother's champion, Ser Jaime.”

 

Jaime stares at her, eyes wide, mouth agape. “Have you gone mad, wench?”

 

But Brienne's face tells him she's deadly serious. And it absolutely terrifies him. “Seven Hells... Have you ever seen The Mountain fight?” He promptly corrects himself. “I take that back – The Mountain doesn't fight so much as he annihilates. Anyone and anything in his way.”

 

Her eyebrows crinkle together with fierce determination. “Even the supposed gods among us can be killed. Does he not bleed like a man?”

 

“Well, yes. But--”

 

“Then monster, beast, demon, it doesn't matter; he is still a man and a man can be killed.” Brienne argues.

 

“Seven Hells, Brienne – this is not the time to be pig-headed!” Jaime counters with a bit of a frustrated edge to his voice.

 

She glares at him, her eyes filled with the power of a thousand tempests. “Now is not the time to be craven, either. So you must make a decision, Ser Jaime – put your trust in me and allow me to defend your brother's honor, or sentence him to die. _I_ know what I must do, but do _you_?”

 

Jaime gulps back the angry roar that threatens to burst forth from the depths of his soul. He feels as if he's being torn in two. How can she ask such a thing from him – to make a choice between love, honor, and family when he cherished all three? He couldn't let his brother die for a crime he knew he did not commit; he couldn't bear the thought of watching Brienne, his lover, his friend, die at the hands of Clegane and then be forced to watch his vile sister grin at the sight of the “interloper” bleeding out on the ground as the light faded from her eyes. However, he couldn't allow his heart to come between his love for Brienne and the lady knight's thirst for duty and honor, either.

 

Without so much as a word, Jaime rushes headlong into her, sending them crashing into the soft bed a mess of tangled arms and legs, his lips hungry for the pale warmth of her flesh. He kisses her anywhere and everywhere, madly, tears welling in his eyes. “Love you... Godsdamn it, wench... Love you so much. Don't leave me in this world alone... Need you... Please....” he pleads, unable to stop the pain from streaming down his face nor the passion threatening to consume him.

 

Brienne feels the fingers of his left hand comb through her short hair and rest at the base of her neck. His lips press against her ear, hot breath rousing a rash of goosebumps across the plain of her flesh. Jaime's fingers descend upon the front of her leather jerkin, unlacing it with enough dexterity to eventually slip his hand inside and clutch her full, tender breast in his palm. She feels him push against her with urgency, his cock hard. She wills one arm to draw around his waist while the other fumbles with the buckle of his belt with equal urgency.

 

“...Jaime...hush now. I'm here, and I intend to stay here...” she breathes between his onslaught of kisses upon her bare torso. His lips find her breast, sampling the bright pink ring of flesh before burning a trail of kisses down her belly. “You have me, Jaime. You'll always have me.”

 

He rears up, unable to restrain himself any longer and guides himself within Brienne, hips pumping against her own. Brienne inhales through her clenched teeth at the sudden fullness of Jaime's length within her as she attempts to match Jaime's momentum, her long legs drawing around his waist.

 

“That's it... Just like that...” Jaime breathes as Brienne's movements finally sync with his own. “So warm... Gods, wench, you feel so good...” _But most importantly_ , he thinks, _you feel like home. My home..._

 

Brienne eventually feels him come within her, warmth smothering her in its hazy, comforting embrace. She collects him against her chest, only to feel his stump descend upon her swollen clit and begin to circle it with the intent of completing her. “Jaime...! Fuck – Jaime!” she moans, strong back arching, her crotch rocking hard against Jaime's stump.

 

Jaime grins, knowing her climax is evident, for she only used such vulgar tongues in his presence while they made love and she was on the verge of surrender. He takes a moment to break eye contact with Brienne, her body convulsing in pleasure, to gaze at his stump as he continues to circle his lover's moist folds and tender clit, and smiles to himself. _Perhaps this damned thing has a use after all..._

 

As they lay upon the bed, sheets rumpled, bodies spent and savoring in the contentedness of afterglow, Jaime lovingly buries his face into Brienne's sweaty blonde hair as she lay atop him. “I'm sorry for that sudden fit of passion, wench. But you left me no choice.”

 

Brienne kisses his shoulder. “No you're not, you insatiable lout.”

 

“Okay, maybe not for the act itself,” admits Jaime with a slight grin. “But for the hastiness in which it was done.”

 

The lady snuggles into the Lion's chest, silent. Jaime bends to kiss her pale blonde head once more. “In all seriousness, I believe in you, Lady Brienne, as your friend, as your lord-husband. So too does my brother. I can think of no better champion.”

 

Brienne looks up to meet Jaime's gaze, her chin twitching. “Do you really mean that?”

 

“I do,” nods Jaime. “I know there is great strength in you, Lady Brienne. I've seen it myself.”

 

A determined edge accompanies her voice. “I will conquer Ser Gregor, Jaime. For Lord Tyrion. And for you.”

 

Jaime kisses her. “I know you will, love. Because I'm going to help you to do it.”

 

He comes from her then, hand fumbling to tie the laces of his brown breeches. Eventually he rises from the bed to fetch the sword Brienne had used in her oath moments prior. Sheathed, it feels even heftier in his weaker hand in spite of the lightness of the Valyrian steel, and while he isn't one to believe – like some of his fellow knights across the realm – in the idea that the sword chooses its master, even Jaime couldn't deny how proper the blade, with its gilded hilt and trio of fierce lion heads, looked in Brienne's hands. It was as if it had been made for her all along.

 

“Take this.” Jaime orders, arm extended towards her. “It is wasted on me, my lady. Since you are to be a Lannister, I do not believe my father would mind if it were entrusted to you.”

 

Brienne covers herself in her longclothes, wide eyed, unable to look away from the sword in Jaime's hand. “I can't accept--” she begins with a disbelieving shake of her head.

 

Jaime interjects. “You can, Brienne. If you wish to slay the beast, you'll need every advantage at your command. Valyrian steel never looses its edge, cutting through even the most fortified of armor.”

 

Brienne takes the hilt and scabbard into her hands. “I... I thank you for this, Jaime. Once I've achieved my purpose, I shall return it to you.”

 

Jaime kneels before her, hand on her knee. “It's yours, Lady Brienne. And as my lady-wife, it will always be yours.”

 

Brienne gazes down at him, her head moving into a slow nod, chin quivering. With the stakes having never been higher, she knows she must unburden herself in order to maintain proper focus on the trial to come. Her grip tightens around the gilded hilt. “And that of our children...”

 

Jaime smiles up at her. “Yes. They, too, will come to wield it in time, long after we've gone.”

 

Brienne feels her cheeks flush, having stumbled on her words the first time. “While I've no doubt of that, I'm afraid I've misspoken...” And then it comes from her, the burden off her mind and shoulders, as free as words on the wind, “I am with child, Ser Jaime. Yours.” A faint smile curves her mouth. “Or cub, if you prefer.”

 

The admission hits Jaime in the chest, as if he's just taken a mighty blow from a warhammer in the heat of battle. The world around him sputters to a crawl as Brienne's words swirl about his head and fill his heart to the brim with emotions too many to count. He can only look up at her, eyes wide and mouth parted just enough to sip at the air. He's wanted this – a chance to be a proper father to his trueborn children; to openly love and cherish them – for as far back as he can remember. While he'd sired Cersei's children, the act of doing so was just about the extent of his involvement in their lives. Now, however, it seemed as if he would finally get his chance.

 

Eventually, Jaime is able to break the heavy silence between himself and Brienne, not with words but a mere gesture as his hand reaches out to rest against Brienne's belly. _Beneath your flesh and muscle_ , he marvels to himself whilst looking at his hand splayed out against her abdomen, _my child grows within your womb, and I can feel no greater pride in you than I do in this very moment..._

 

Her hand moves to join his, their fingers intertwining. “I do hope you will forgive me for being so craven about this. But I was afraid if I'd told you sooner and the circumstances were what they are now, you would deny me the right to fight as Lord Tyrion's champion.””

 

Jaime shakes his head. “While I will admit that to say I am concerned about your well-being going forward would be a gross understatement, you know I cannot deny you the right to do anything, Brienne. All I can do is voice my thoughts on the matter and hope you will heed my advice. Besides...” A grin plays across Jaime's face. “I learned a long time ago that your only other quality on par with your stubbornness is the courage that flows through your veins. And speaking of courage...” His eyes find his palm against her abdomen. “I've no doubt about this one.”

 

Their lips meet, only for Jaime to bring his arms around Brienne's strong neck, his head coming to rest against her broad shoulder. They share a few moments of quiet, savoring the warmth and comfort of each other, thoughts collectively racing about the future and what awaits them on the other side of this darkness before them, when Jaime comes from his lover's shoulder. “They say only the best swords have names... Any ideas?”

 

There's no doubt in Brienne's mind as to what she will christen the blade. “Oathkeeper.,” she nods. “While I can no longer fulfill my oath to Lady Catelyn, I intend to keep my oath to you, to Tyrion, and to our child, Jaime. I swear it by the old gods and the new.”

 

* * *

 

The next morning, Brienne is awoken well before sunrise by Jaime, who tells her he has another gift for her waiting in the Armory of the Red Keep, fresh from the master smith after having spent the better part of the night working tirelessly on it in time for the trial. After she slips into more proper clothes, Jaime leads her into the basements and eventually the Armory, where Master Cerwyn and his apprentice are busy putting the finishing touches on his latest fabrication. A suit of deep, midnight blue armor, well fortified and polished to a high shine.

 

Brienne is taken aback by the sight. The armor, while nothing quite as ornate as the suits worn by the highest echelon Lannister officers, is still leagues ahead of her prior suit, which she cobbled together herself from bits and pieces of armors discarded by Renly's forces.

 

“I hope I got your measurements right. Is it to your liking?” asks Jaime with some semblance of nervous excitement.

 

“It is,” smiles Brienne, unable to take her eyes off of it. “Very much so. I don't know how to thank you, Ser Jaime. For everything.”

 

Jaime approaches her, eyes full of warmth. “Just think of them as my wedding gifts to you, my lady; you've already given me the greatest gift a man could ever ask for.” he tells her, cryptically alluding to their child. They share a quick embrace before Jaime turns his attention to the armor, smooth shoulder pauldron in hand. “Well then, shall we see how everything fits, my lady?”

 

Eventually, Brienne stands before him covered from waist to shoulder in the new suit, with Oathkeeper sheathed at her hip. Jaime marvels at her. She looks svelte, lethal...noble and courageous; she will make a fine Lioness of Lannister, to be certain, he thinks. “Blue is a good color on you, my lady.” Jaime grins as he draws his arms around the cold steel of Brienne's waist. “Brings out your eyes.”

 

Brienne blushes. “Not in front of the smith, Jaime...” she advises beneath her breath.

 

“Oh, come now, wench,” snorts Jaime with a decidedly impish grin. “We could fuck right here on the floor and he wouldn't bat an eye.”

 

Brienne's eyes widen with embarrassment, the rouge on her cheeks deepening. “Will you hold your tongue?” she admonishes with a whisper before acknowledging the busy smith. “Thank you, Master Cerwyn. I am in your debt.”

 

Master Cerwyn looks up from his task, his brow dripping with sweat from the sweltering forge. “Quite all right, my lady. Anything for Lord Jaime; known him since he was just a wee lion cub.” He looks to Jaime. “My lord, the helm you commissioned shall be ready before sunrise; my apprentice is just finishing it up now.”

 

Jaime nods. “And so it shall. Thank you, Master Cerwyn. Your dedication knows no bounds.”

 

“Helm?” asks Brienne, curious.

 

“My final wedding gift to you, my wench. Master Cerwyn assures me it will be finished in time for the trial.”

 

Brienne and Jaime share a glance before seeing themselves from the sweltering chamber. They make haste for Tyrion's cell. In the dungeons, Jaime fetches a torch from a nearby sconce to light their way forward, when they eventually meet up with a pair of guards. “I'm Ser Jaime Lannister. This is Lady Brienne of Tarth. We've come to see my brother.”

 

“Aye, Ser Jaime.” greets one of the guards while his partner gawks at Brienne.

 

“Lady? That a woman?” he asks, trying to stifle a laugh. “Never seen a woman that big.”

 

Jaime is candid – and perhaps a bit mischievous – in his reply. “Not just a woman, but a woman with child – and the raging hormones to boot. So if I were you, I'd would quit while ahead and shut my mouth, lest she use said hormones as an excuse to turn you from lord to lady with her bare hands.”

 

The guards quickly part. “Right this way, my lord. My lady.”

 

Inside Tyrion's cell, Jaime replaces the torch in the nearby sconce before stepping further into the room. “Tyrion?” he calls.

 

Tyrion hears his brother's call from the fringes of sleep, his eyes popping open with alertness. “Jaime? Do bring that torch, I cannot even see you.”

 

Jaime retrieves it. The look on Tyrion's face is nothing short of relief. “Brother. Lady Brienne?” His eyes are immediately drawn to Brienne's hip and the hilt glowing in the torchlight. “That sword...”

 

Brienne clutches dutifully at the hilt, a proud smile on her face. “Ser Jaime entrusted me with this sword in preparation for the battle to come. It's the reason I'm here before you, my lord.” The lady knight draws the blade and kneels before the dwarf. “Tyrion of House Lannister. I, Brienne of Tarth, do hereby pledge myself to fight as your champion against the Crown's Ser Gregor Clegane in a trial by combat."

 

Tyrion steps forward, the words having escaped him. Instead, his hands take one of Brienne's own and the pair share a moment of silence while Jaime observes them from the side, pride filling him. Eventually, Tyrion is able to regain his composure and expresses his thanks by embracing the woman he considers to be his savior. “I am forever in your debt, my lady. They will sing songs of your exploits for generations to come.”

 

Brienne sheathes the blade with care, sheepish from Tyrion's high praise. “Seven Hells, I hope not. I'm hardly worth singing about, my lord.”

 

Tyrion looks to his older brother. “Is she always so modest?”

 

Jaime utters a light-hearted sigh, arms crossing. “I'm afraid so. I found it rather irritating at first but godsdamned if it didn't start to rub off on me.”

 

Tyrion, a big smile on his face, attempts to make amends with the flushing Brienne. “We are only jesting, my lady. Take no offense. I trust you've already christened the blade?”

 

Brienne nods with a slight smile. “Oathkeeper, my lord.”

 

“Appropriate,” smiles Tyrion. “There has never lived a truer knight, my lady.” He moves to sit upon a nearby crate, smile having faded from his face. “Since we still have time before break of day, allow me to leave you both with a story – brother, do you remember cousin Orson?”

 

Jaime nods, having come to sit at Brienne's side. “Orson Lannister...” he remembers, albeit vaguely. “Wet nurse dropped him on his head as a baby? Left him simple if I'm not mistaken?”

 

Tyrion appears slightly amused. “Simple? If you wish to call it that, yes. Used to sit in the garden all day, smashing beetles with a rock. Sometimes with his own fist. Nothing made him happier.”

 

Jaime grins. “Nothing made _you_ happier, you mean. You would spend just as much time watching him as he would crushing the beetles. You would think being tormented from birth would have given you some affinity for the afflicted.”

 

“On the contrary, dear brother. Laughing at another person's misery was the only thing that made me feel like everyone else.”

 

“The joke wore thin though,” replies Jaime.

 

“For you,” replies Tyrion. “You had _other_ interests. But I stayed with Orson. I was curious – why did he spend all day smashing those beetles? What did he gain from such destruction? You've always known me to be a rather curious sort, Jaime, so naturally, the first thing I did was ask him one day.”

 

“And?” smiles Jaime.

 

“He gave me an answer. A lackwit's answer, to be certain, but an answer nonetheless – _'Smash beetles! Smash 'em! Kuh! Kuh! Kuh!'_ ”

 

The brothers share a laugh before Tyrion resumes his story. “But I wasn't deterred. I was the smartest person I knew. And certainly smart enough to unravel the mysteries that lay at the heart of a moron. So I went to Maester Volarik's chambers.”

 

“Volarik,” shudders Jaime, his face twisting with palpable disgust. “Tried to touch me once. Never Cersei. Just me. Sometimes I wonder if having an affinity for little boys is one of the prerequisites to becoming a maester.”

 

“Be that as it may, you would be surprised at how much has been written about great men and how little has been written about morons. While I didn't find any telling answers to Orson's relentless beetle slaughter, I felt like I was one step closer to understanding why, and soon found myself obsessed with putting it all together. While Father droned on and on about family legacy, I was too busy watching Orson and his beetles. I had to know, because it was horrible that all these beetles should be dying for no reason.”

 

Jaime regards his brother with skepticism. “Really? Every day around the bloody world, innocent men, women and children are murdered by the score. Why give two fucks about a bunch of beetles?”

 

Tyrion shrugs. “I know, I know. But it filled me with dread just the same. Piles and piles of them, years and years of them. How many countless living crawling things smashed and dried out and returned to the dirt? I tried to stop him once.” He looks to Brienne. “He was twice your size. About the size of The Mountain if memory serves me.”

 

“What did he do?” asks Brienne with interest.

 

“While he was a beast of a man, he wasn't savage like Ser Gregor, so I knew he wouldn't hurt me. He just pushed me aside with a _'kuh!_ ' and kept on smashing... Everyday until that mule kicked him in the chest and killed him. To this day, I still think of him every time I see a beetle and wonder why – why did he do what he did? Though, in hindsight I suppose I should be grateful beetles were the _worst_ of his killing...”

 

Tyrion rises from his seat on the crate just as the bells signaling the break of day sound off in the distance, his hands finding Brienne's once more. “My lady. The point I'm trying to make is simply this... To Gregor Clegane, men, women, and children are his beetles. But rather than try to understand his reasons for ending their lives, you must be that one beetle out of countless corpses that fells him in an act of divine retribution, as any other path will only lead you to death and madness. Do you understand, Lady Brienne?”

 

Brienne gives a slight nod. “I do, Tyrion. And I will not fail you.”

 

Tyrion shares a knowing glance with his brother. “We believe in you, Lady Brienne. May the gods be in your favor this day...”

 


	14. The Mountain Between Us II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne faces her toughest opponent yet in a life or death trial by combat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back with the exciting conclusion to "The Mountain Between Us" my lovelies! Apologies if it took a bit longer. I got busy working on some cover art for this beast. Here now is the conclusion of this two part "episode". Enjoy!

Brienne watches with baited breath as Master Cerwyn holds the newly finished helm between his big paws. A lioness, looking equal parts proud and fierce, her steel the same color as Brienne's armor. “Your helm, my lady.” smiles Master Cerwyn before slipping it over her head. Brienne peers out through the lion's maw at Cerwyn and Jaime, who bears the slightest of smiles on his face.

 

“How does it feel, my lady?” asks Cerwyn.

 

“Perfect, master. The view isn't hindered at all.” Brienne replies, her voice slightly muffled. “I am in your debt.”

 

Cerywn wishes her farewell with a slight nod before returning to his work. She then approaches Jaime, her heart thundering beneath the many layers of protection. Yet her voice remains calm in the face of the battle to come. “Jaime.”

 

Jaime can merely gaze up at her, two blue eyes peering back at him from behind the lion's mouth looking determined and void of fear. He's never been more proud of – and furious at – her than he is at this moment. Yet he knows there is to be no changing of that mulish mind of hers, regardless of the circumstances. “I've done everything in my power to insure the safety of you both. It is up to you now, Brienne.” He reaches to kiss her, wishing he didn't have to let go of her now. And possibly forever.

 

Brienne cups Jaime's cheek in her gloved palm. “I'll return to you, my lord-husband. I promise.”

 

They share a final kiss before parting. But rather than go his own way, Jaime can't bear to move a single step, his gazed trained on the armored back of his lover, unable to face what awaits him within the arena. In spite of the palpable fear crushing his chest, however, Jaime steels himself, jaw clenching, adam's apple bobbing as he swallows. He wills himself to begin walking.

 

For Brienne. For their child.

 

For Tyrion.

 

* * *

 

Tyrion Lannister walks with a pair of Lannister guardsmen, his wrists bound by thick shackles but head held high, en route to the arena. He can already hear the crowd cheering in eager anticipation, and feels his heart begin to beat faster, and faster still with every step towards the outdoor area until both the crowd and his pulse become deafening to his ears. A rather large crowd has gathered to partake in the savage festivities as the sun beats down overhead. Tyrion spots his family, as well as members of House Tyrell, sitting underneath the red canopy of the central viewing platform before turning his focus to the towering knight clad in familiar blue armor and the equally familiar squire in accompaniment.

 

“Pod? Why are you still here?” he asks with disbelief in spite of being relieved to see the aging squire still alive.

 

“I couldn't do it, my lord.” Podrick replies with a hint of remorse. “I'm sorry.”

 

Tyrion offers the lad a kind smile. “You're a good lad.” he tells him before looking at the dusky blue knight, knowing who it is underneath the snarling lion helm. He admires her in silence. Her posture is rigid, proud, unwavering; her sword hand dutifully grasping Oathkeeper's hilt. And though Tyrion cannot see her eyes, he knows they are focused squarely on the armored giant on the other side of the arena with greatsword in hand. Tyrion can feel Gregor Clegane's presence from here, omnipotent and terrifying, and his own pulse beating with sickening rhythm in his throat as his champion and that of the Crown step into the arena while Grand Maester Pycelle stands in the center, prepared to speak.

 

The arena falls silent. “In the sight of gods and men, we gather to ascertain the guilt or innocence of this man Tyrion Lannister. May the Mother grant them mercy. May the Father give them such justice as they deserve. And may the Warrior guide the hand of our champion--”

 

Tywin Lannister, much like the crowd, quickly grows impatient with the old maester's feeble speech, and rises from his seat to interject. “The trial will now commence. Champions, step forward, and may the gods be in your favor – begin!”

 

From his vantage point, Jaime watches with baited breath, stomach in knots, as Brienne steps forward, Oathkeeper in her grasp and shimmering like a beacon of righteous hope in the darkness that is Gregor Clegane. The behemoth lunges toward her, his rage ululating raw from his throat over the cacophony of the crowd as he cuts a great swath through the air aimed at Brienne's head, hoping to end the fight before it has even begun. Brienne braces herself and blocks the blow, her feet plated firmly on the ground. But Gregor's strength outmatches even her own and supplants her foothold, the recoil knocking her off balance, much to Jaime's horror.

 

Brienne catches herself, only to press the attack with a roar as she wills Oathkeeper into a great, two handed upward thrust towards Gregor's helm, knocking both it and the lumbering beast backwards for a moment before he regains his footing and kicks his helm aside in a rage. The lady knight draws a much-needed breath as her pulse thunders in her ears, Oathkeeper at the ready in front of her. As she circles and plans her next move, Brienne catches a glimpse of Jaime looking upon her, his face as pale as a wraith and wrought with palpable tension.

 

She tightens her grip around Oathkeeper's hilt, resolve coursing through her veins as Gregor steams toward her with snarl. _I will not fail you, Jaime. I cannot fail you. Nor Tyrion. Nor this child,_ Brienne tells herself just as Gregor strikes once, then again, each blow bearing down upon her without restraint, the force of each strike sending shockwaves clean through her muscles and into her bones. She grits her teeth, grunting, her body still shrugging off the numbing effects of Gregor's flurry, and counters with a quick stab into the opening afforded to her, striking The Mountain in the chest, rousing a cheer from the crowd.

 

But his armor is thick, and merely punctures the heavy plating rather than the chainmail and tender flesh underneath. Brienne retreats, knowing a change of tactic is in order if Tyrion is to be found innocent and she to emerge from this battle victorious.

 

“Coward!” yells Gregor, his face red with fury and dripping with sweat. Already, it is becoming clear to Brienne that the man's great size in combination with the weight of his armor and the blazing sun are working together in her favor and exhausting the hulking beast of a man. Yet she dares not get arrogant, knowing well of his lethal reputation. He runs to engage his foe once more, swinging his greatsword in wide, angry, arcs; while Brienne is able to absorb the first wave and the follow up, she is unable to withstand the third, a swing so fierce it knocks her backwards as if she were merely a strawdoll, her body crashing to the ground with an audible screeching sound of steel scraping against stone as she skids.

 

The force of the blow is enough to render her absent of breath, helm and possession of Oathkeeper, which lays discarded against the high wall. Brienne knows she must will herself to rise, to meet Gregor's unbridled fury with her own, yet her body betrays her, heavy and wrought with pain. _For you, Jaime. For our child. For Tyrion,_ she tells herself until it becomes a mantra with which she uses to rise to her feet and make haste for Oathkeeper.

 

Her eyebrows furrow with angry determination, eyes filled with the fury of a tempest intent on crushing The Mountain; he stands a great many steps from her, bristling with the strength of a hundred men or more, bald head covered in bulging, angry veins and sweat. Even at this distance, he looks massive. A great beast. A beast intent on destroying her. Brienne hunkers down into her fighting stance, legs apart, feet planted on the stone ground, when Gregor breaks into a lumbering run, charging headlong towards her; she rushes to meet him with a growl.

 

Their blades clash with a fury so great that the crowd falls into mesmerized silence, their mouths agape at the sight of the sword of their champion on the ground, snapped in two clean pieces while the other remains altogether perfect, the rippled blade shimmering in the sunlight...and the blood of Gregor Clegane. Brienne, her lungs and heart furiously pumping, stares down at Oathkeeper in her white-knuckled grip, and the man impaled through the chest on the end of it.

 

Jaime looks on, pensive. _Seven Hells, Brienne. What are you waiting for? A bloody invitation?_ He wonders to himself, hand clenching. _End it!_

 

Had Tyrion not related the story of their beetle-loving cousin Orson, Brienne might have given Gregor Clegane a chance to yield. But she'd felt it in every blow he'd struck that he was a man who would do no such thing. He was a knight in title alone, and a disgrace to the virtues she held dear; he knew nothing of mercy, only bloodshed and ceaseless death. She felt no glory in killing, even more so in front of an audience, but Gregor Clegane was no Orson Lannister; he killed not because he was a lackwit, but because he was a monster barren of conscience. From the stories she'd heard of him, and now her own experience, Tyrion's words had never felt more true -- innocent men, woman and children truly were his beetles.

 

And his ceaseless destruction of them would end this day, one way or another.

 

 

Brienne grits her teeth, her two-handed grip around Oathkeeper tightening in preparation for carrying out the sentence. But Gregor Clegane needs only a moment of hesitation to take his opponent by surprise with a fearsome punch to the stomach; her eyes bulge in response, in shock and terror, to the pain, to the suffocating emptiness of her lungs, as both bile and blood force themselves from her mouth and the force of the salvo brings her to her knees. 

 

Jaime's heart sinks. With disappointment. In Fear. In frustration. _Gods, no... No!_ Jaime screams to himself, watching in terror as Gregor's massive bulk sits atop Brienne, his fists pummeling her face. “Brienne!” screams Jaime over the ruckus cheers of the audience. "Brienne!"

 

Brienne hears Jaime's call to her over the sounds of the crowd and Gregor's knuckles against her face. She struggles underneath Clegane's massive bulk as he continues to bash her face in with his fists, his knuckles tainted red with her blood. Though she is blessed with strength unbecoming of a woman, even it is not enough against that of The Mountain. Yet she continues to struggle beneath his onslaught, knowing to quit was to die. And her father hadn't raised a quitter, but a warrior forged from the fires of courage, strength, heart and steel. Brienne grits her teeth, her vision burning red with fury and blood from her brow, fists clenched. With a roar, she throws what remains of her strength into her knee with a thrust to Gregor's unprotected groin, abruptly stopping his onslaught.

 

She reaches for Oathkeeper on the ground before scrambling to her feet, her face and armor beaten and bloody. Yet she readies her blade without hesitation as The Mountain kneels crumbled before her and holding his only weakness – himself – and roars with the effort of planting Oathkeeper through his big bald head, painting her armor red with his blood. As he falls, eyes open and vacant of life, Brienne pulls back on Oathkeeper's hilt, his head sliding off the blade with an audible squelch before falling lifelessly to the ground.

 

As the crowd sits in stunned silence, Brienne wills herself to remain standing in spite of her pain and exhaustion to hear Lord Tywin formerly announce an end to the contest as well as his verdict. “The gods have made their will known. Tyrion Lannister, in the name of King Tommen of the House Baratheon, First of His Name, King of the Andals and the First Men, and on behalf of your champion, Lady Brienne of House Tarth, you are hereby found not guilty in the death of King Joffrey Baratheon. Escort the acquitted to a proper chamber.”

 

Jaime had left his vantage point the instant Gregor Clegane's corpse hit the dusty ground, his heart beating a thousand leagues a minute with relief and pride in Brienne's accomplishment, but so too with fear for her well-being and that of their unborn child, as he'd watched Clegane knock Brienne off her feet with a savage punch to her gut. The fact that he'd instructed Master Cerwyn to reinforce the interior plating of the armor's cuirass during its forging brings Jaime little comfort as he races for the arena floor.

 

Brienne gulps for air in spite of her lungs burning with pain upon every inhale. Every bone and muscle in her body aches. She can already feel her face swelling from the bruises and bleeding. Her head feels as if it is shrouded in a thick fog as her vision grows dark and tunneled. It is all she can do to will herself to look in the direction of her name being called, lest she succumb into darkness. A weary smile graces her broken face. _Jaime..._ she mutters to herself just as she begins to lose consciousness. 

 

_It is done. For Tyrion...For you...For our child...And for the innocent... It is done..._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout out to my JB buddy who helped me navigate through this chapter. Love ya, hon! <3


	15. Fractured Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With the fates of Brienne and their unborn child in limbo, Jaime, consumed by grief, fear and rage, descends into darkness, with hope as his only means of survival.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Greetings my lovelies! Back with what is, essentially, the end of the first story -- I know, I know! -- but the good news is an epilogue is to follow as both a means of closure and set-up for the next story; remember, this is going to be a series! As far as this chapter goes, it will be told from Jaime's POV for the most part and he is, understandably, in a really dark place at the moment, so expect him to be out of sorts. 
> 
> Oh, and Tywin + verbal bitchslaps = yay!

“I don't trust you, you know that, don't you?”

 

Qyburn stands over Brienne as she lay within her chambers, having been stripped of her armor and down to nothing but her small clothes in order for the former maester to ascertain the extent of her injuries. “Would you rather I fetch Pycelle, my lord?” he quips.

 

Jaime steels himself, eyes trained on the unconscious Brienne. her face awash in deep purple bruises, her pale blonde hair streaked brown with dried blood. “...No.” he concedes. “I may not entirely trust you, but it is far more than that lecherous cunt Pycelle; wouldn't trust him even around a hairless cat.”

 

The faintest smile graces Qyburn's weathered face at Jaime's characterization of the notoriously perverted grand maester. “A fair assumption, my lord. And while I may not be a maester any longer, I've not allowed that to stop me from using my knowledge for the good of my fellow man. I saved your arm, did I not?” asks Qyburn, his fingers carefully tracing over Brienne's bruise-mottled face.

 

“You only saved my arm because I was adamant about keeping it; I remember you wanting nothing more than to chop it off due to the corruption. And that was all before my sister got her claws into you.” Jaime retorts. “Slowly but surely, everything she touches eventually withers and dies. Like a poison.” _But it hadn't only been my wrist that had become corrupted,_ Jaime muses to himself. _I, too, had become corrupted, long before losing my hand. By Cersei, by father, by the white cloak, by arrogance... Yet somehow, I am still standing, reborn as something different..._

 

Qyburn has worked his way down to Brienne's battered midsection; Jaime bristles with tension as he watches Qyburn's fingers manipulate the softened muscles of her abdomen. “Not so hard, you fool!” growls Jaime in protest.

 

Qyburn glances up at him with interest. “Forgive me, my lord. But it's necessary that I do so. I mean the lady no harm.”

 

Jaime draws a breath in an attempt to take some of the edge off his shoulders. “I apologize. It's just that I was there when I witnessed Clegane strike her in the stomach... The blow seemed to rattle the realm itself.”

 

“She's quite the hardy woman if I remember correctly. Traveled with us back to King's Landing, did she not?” asks Qyburn, fingers palpating just beneath her navel.

 

Jaime nods. “That would be her, yes. Lady Brienne of Tarth.”

 

A sense of awe fills Qyburn's voice. “Ah, so _she_ is Lord Selwyn Tarth's sole child and heir. And quite the remarkable warrior, as it is one thing to fight a man, but quite another to suffer The Mountain and live to tell the tale.”

 

 _A tale she should have never have had to live to tell to begin with_ , Jaime muses to himself, his anger rising. He promptly changes the topic. “Get on with it, what of her injuries?”

 

Qyburn's face is grim. “Grave, my lord. While the goods news is that she appears to have not suffered any facial fractions, her bruising is so severe that it will most likely leave portions of her face and stomach permanently discolored. I suspect she may also suffer from internal bleeding. Specifically here, my lord,” he gestures at the bruising across Brienne's belly, “She appears to be with child, judging by several outward characteristics, slight as they may be. It is possible that the stress and injuries sustained during the trial forced her to miscarry.”

 

Jaime swallows hard as the world around him sputters to a crawl upon registering the gut-wrenching possibility of losing both Brienne and the baby due to miscarriage. He attempts to gather himself, but finds himself stammering over his words. “Wh...what are you... saying?”

 

“I know this is difficult for you to hear, my lord, but it is imperative that Lady Brienne's well-being be given priority, for even if the child is still viable, it will not matter if Lady Brienne succumbs to her injuries.”

 

Jaime's heart thunders against his ribs with a fear no amount of combat experience could ever prepare him for. “And the child?”

 

“There's simply no way to know its condition at this time, my lord. All we can do is wait and hope for the best.”

 

Jaime, distraught, struggles to find a even a sliver of hope in the grim darkness of the situation. “But as time goes onward and should her belly flower, that would mean the child is alive, would it not?”

 

Qyburn attempts to reassure the frazzled Jaime with a kind smile. “It would, yes. But I urge you to still prepare yourself, should that turn out to not be the case, my lord.”

 

Jaime nods with hearty acknowledgment in spite of feeling as if he'll be sick and urges the grizzled healer to do what he must in order to ensure Brienne's survival, knowing they could always try to conceive in the future should this child not survive.

 

“At once, my lord.” nods Qyburn before leaving the room.

 

Jaime rises once he is alone in the room, his every muscle taut with white hot anger, pulse thumping in his neck, head throbbing. He stands over Brienne, eyes burning red with rage and tears. “Godsdamn it, Brienne – you fight! Do you hear me? You fight! For us! For our child! To live, and take revenge!” His stump finds her midsection when the thought of losing her, the child, or both suddenly overwhelms him, forcing the breath from his lungs and the tears from his eyes in warm rivulets down his chiseled cheeks. As he takes her hand, her fingernails dirty with the effort of conquering Ser Gregor Clegane, Jaime grits his teeth, his grip tightening in anger, frustration and the hope that he's somehow pouring his essence into her and the body of the lion cub nestled in her womb.

 

_I'm still here because of you, wench; I've been reborn as something different due in part because of you...and now this child... Now this cursed family of mine has set about in destroying it all...!_

 

Jaime is reluctant to let go of Brienne's hand, but knows that he must, as he is suddenly needed elsewhere, spurred on by the anger and pain having erupted within his heart.

 

He makes haste for his father's chambers atop the Tower of the Hand...

 

* * *

 

Once there, Jaime uses all his strength to barge through the heavy doors, unapologetic over having interrupted a private meeting between young King Tommen and his grandfather; Tywin glances over Tommen's shoulder at his son, his blue eyes full of cold admonishment, before returning his focus to the young king. “Forgive me, Your Grace, but it seems my son is acting a fool. We shall continue this discussion at a later time.”

 

Jaime and Tommen exchange looks before Jaime mouths the words 'I'm sorry' and wishes his bastard goodbye with a wordless pat on the shoulder before closing the doors behind him. The Young Lion turns to meet his father sitting at his desk on the other side of the large room.

 

Even from this distance, Tywin can feel the ferocity in his son's wild blue eyes, a hunger that has been absent from them for decades. And something far more disconcerting to the grizzled Old Lion. A fury and a pain he hasn't seen behind his son's eyes since the death of his mother and Tywin's beloved Joanna. “You appear to have something pressing on your mind, do you not? Or do you just like barging into private chambers like some damned fool?”

 

Jaime stomps toward his father's place behind his desk. Up close, his look is even more wild and rampant, as if he was the very embodiment of the lion on which House Lannister was based. He slams his hand on the desk, inks trembling in their pots. “It's Brienne, godsdamn it! I may very well lose her on account of this cursed fucking family!”

 

Tywin doesn't mince his words, voice full of stern warning. “Careful, Jaime. I won't stand for hearing you betray your own family on account of fealty to a woman.”

 

“Not _just_ a woman!” roars Jaime. “Lady Brienne is highborn and the heir to Tarth – and she's also carrying the heir you want so badly!” His tone then turns decidedly dark. “But Tyrion and Cersei made sure to stop that from coming to fruition...”

 

Tywin perks up, having heard the magic word. “She is with child? How long have you known of this?”

 

“Not long.” Jaime replies.

 

“Did she at least do right by you and bring it to your attention before the trial by combat? Why in Seven Hells didn't you stop her from announcing herself to be Tyrion's champion?”

 

Jaime's mouth sours. “Spare me, father! Do not pretend to be concerned about Lady Brienne's wellfare now that you know she is with my child and your heir!”

 

“I asked you a question, Jaime. And you will answer it.” Tywin demands.

 

Jaime draws a breath. “Fine... If you must know, she told me of the pregnancy shortly after Tyrion demanded his trial, and that she would pledge herself to be his champion because nobody else would. I didn't fight her on the decision to do so because I know her – really know her – and honor runs through her veins like blood. There was to be no swaying of her decision.”

 

“An honorable virtue, to be certain, but one that may also be her downfall.”

 

Jaime glares at his father, vehement. “The problem is not her honor! The problem is this fucking cesspool!”

 

“Hold your tongue, Jaime!” barks Tywin with outrage.

 

“Are you blind, father?! She would not even be in this situation if it weren't for Tyrion acting a fool, and Cersei giving Ser Gregor the order to specifically strike her in the stomach, knowing it had the potential to kill the child!” Jaime argues.

 

Tywin appears to mull Jaime's observation over within his mind. “Are you implying that your sister had knowledge of Lady Brienne's condition well before the trial, even before Lady Tarth herself?”

 

Jaime draws another breath in order to bring himself some calm. “...I met with Tyrion during his imprisonment. He said he'd overheard Cersei talking to Brienne during Joffrey's wedding feast, and claimed to Brienne that her look suggested she was with child. But he'd merely assumed it was conjecture at the time. I do not believe Brienne had even entertained the possibility that she could be pregnant.”

 

Tywin strokes his beard in thought. “And you are implying that Cersei ordered Ser Gregor to kill the unborn, knowing it was to be a proper heir to House Lannister?”

 

Jaime nods. “Gregor was a lackwit, obedient to a fault like any proper rabid cur. You should know; he was yours for years. If he is given a command, especially one that requires killing, he's upon it with the gusto of a hound tracking a scent.”

 

A brief flash of anger streaks across Lord Tywin's stoic face. “I will not stand for this petulant behavior! Our House was not built to simply be made a fool of!” he fumes, now standing. “From this moment forward, guardsmen will be posted outside of Lady Brienne's chambers, and only you, Qyburn, and myself will be allowed inside; anyone else will be promptly turned away or dealt with. Do you understand?”

 

Jaime nods. “We are to leave immediately for Casterly Rock once Qyburn has deemed Lady Brienne safe to travel. I do not want her nor the child exposed to the city any longer than necessary.”

 

Tywin returns the nod of agreement before marching for the doors. “Return to Lady Brienne's chambers at once. There are matters I must discuss with your sister...”

 

* * *

 

Cersei Lannister pours herself another goblet of wine, hoping it will be the one to numb her over the loss of her lover, Gregor Clegane, when there's a knock upon her bedchamber doors. “Go away” she calls, her usually proper dialect slightly slurred.

 

“It is I, Qyburn, Your Grace.”

 

She drags herself to her feet, her footing unstable, and walks across the room akin to the way one attempts to walk on eggshells. “Dear Qyburn...So wonderful to see you...”

 

Qyburn steadies Cersei as they step down the stairs. “Drinking yourself to death will not bring back Ser Gregor, Your Grace... But there is something that might...”

 

Cersei gazes at him, green eyes bleary and bloodshot with drunkenness. “Wh-what? How? I watched that great cow ske...ske-wer his head on he-her sword...”

 

Qyburn's eyes alight with wonder. “Open your eyes, Your Grace, as there are a great many things in this world my colleagues consider to be unnatural; secrets they are far too craven to uncover. Death does not need to be final, Your Grace.”

 

Just as Cersei is about to speak, another knock – this one far more booming and ominous – is heard at the door before the door itself opens to reveal Lord Tywin, his eyes glaring squarely in Cersei and Qyburn's direction. “You, leave this room immediately and get back to work on Lady Tarth,” he commands to Qyburn before slamming the door shut and stepping down the stairs. “And you, my conniving, impetuous daughter, are to remain here so that we may discuss matters of grave importance, alone.”

 

But Cersei is too drunk to take heed of the way her father's voice drips with fierce authority, and instead merely goes about her business of getting shitfaced while Qyburn leaves in a hurry.

 

Tywin storms over to her, only to snatch both the goblet and the wine out of her hands and throw them across the room. “Enough! You are a Lannister, and Lannisters do not act like fools! I will not have your pettiness be the downfall of our proud House!” When it appears Cersei is far too unreceptive to her father's words, Tywin becomes more forceful, grabbing his daughter by her shoulders. “You will look at me and tell me the truth! Did you or did you not order Gregor Clegane to kill the trueborn heir of House Lannister out of spite for Lady Tarth?”

 

“That's ridiculous. I would never, father. Even if she is more beast than woman.” Cersei snickers.

 

Tywin glares at her. “Everything you just said to my face is a lie. Do you think me to be such a common fool? I know of your...deviant behavior with Jaime, and do not think me to be so simple to not deduce that you are so jealous of Lady Tarth that you would give not a second thought in becoming a kinslayer and bring shame forever upon our House!”

 

Cersei, however, remains defiant, spurred on by liquid courage. “I only see what matters, father. I only do what matters. And it would be a far greater insult to our family to treat that slothenly cow as if she were one of us. She will be a Lannister in name alone, nothing more. I did what I had to do for Jaime, and for the good of House Lannister. And if you cannot see that, then perhaps you are no longer fit to lead our proud House.”

 

“My eyes are wide open, daughter, let me assure you. And I can tell you with every fiber of my mortal being that you will never rule this House so long as my heart beats.” Tywin's eyes soon narrow, becoming dark with dire intent as he leans in closer to Cersei,. “And I can also assure you that, should death befall Lady Brienne, her baby, or both, I'll have Qyburn's head on a spike, and you married off so far away from here that the only hope you will ever have of seeing Tommen again will be in your dreams.”

 

Cersei's eyes bulge with a fear only a mother could ever hope to understand. “No! No, father, please! You cannot keep me from my baby boy!” she pleads with big tears in her eyes. “Was I not to wed the pillowbiter from Highgarden?”

 

Tywin stands, his voice full of finality. “Not anymore now that the fate my heir is at stake thanks in part to your conniving efforts. If you wish to stay with Tommen, I suggest you start praying for Lady Tarth and her baby.”

 

* * *

 

Jaime sits next to Brienne inside her chambers, his head pounding and neck muscles knotted like the roots of a tree. He sits in quiet contemplation, sulking in his own juices of despondence and anger, wishing but for a moment that he'd never laid eyes upon Brienne that night she'd accompanied Catelyn Stark into his pen, the tall maiden's eyes glowing in the pale light of the moon. So blue. So beautiful. Knowing nothing of hate nor malice, but fierce all the same. He hadn't been able to look away from her, towering over Lady Catelyn like a steel idol ready to defend her at a moments notice. That was the moment, he knew, he would never be the same again.

 

Jaime goes within himself. _You deserve better than...all of this, Brienne. Certainly better than being tethered to me and this family. Yet, perhaps it's true what I'd told you that day I acted more insufferable than usual and spoke ill of Renly – we truly don't get to choose who we love. But more than that, I know now that it was not of Renly I was speaking about, nor was it Cersei... It was you. But rather than entertain the possibility of loving another woman beyond Cersei, I hid myself behind a mask, but even that began to chip away over time..._

 

He takes her hand once more and squeezes, disconcerted to find that her flesh is cold, clammy and feverish. Jaime draws the sheets over her body from big feet to broad shoulders, his hand coming to rest upon her forehead while he wills his stump in careful circles around her belly. _Godsdamn it! I am of the House Lannister, the most powerful House in the Seven Kingdoms! So why...why do I feel so powerless...?! Answer me, you seven spiteful cunts!_

 

The door suddenly opens, bringing Jaime from within himself. Qyburn, a bevy of medicines in hand, with help from Tyrion's former squire, Podrick Payne, now in the service of Brienne. “The lad cannot be in here, Qyburn. Father's orders.”

 

“He is merely helping me to carry some items, my lord,” Qyburn replies whilst setting down an assortment of vials and tools on the table. “Thank you, lad. Now do as Lord Jaime commands and leave us be.”

 

Podrick gives a slight bow. “At once, maester Qyburn. My lord, please give Lady Brienne my regards.”

 

Once they are alone, Jaime relays the distressing news to Qyburn that Brienne has become feverish. “I was afraid this would happen, my lord. If she is feverish, that means an infection must be present. It could very well be her body attempting to purge itself of the deceased.”

 

Jaime can't help but lash out. “Then do something, for fuck's sake! At this point I don't care if my child is dead, just save Brienne!”

 

Qyburn offers Jaime's shoulder a comforting squeeze. “Do not fret, my lord. While there is but one thing told to us by the Stranger, today will not be her day. Nor tomorrow, nor the next. I promise.”

 

* * *

 

The days go by in their own agonizing way, with Jaime never once straying very far from Brienne nor her chambers as the world continues to go on around him. The days turn into a week, then a fortnight, yet Brienne remains still and her belly flat. Tywin spends the occasional minute or two in the presence of his eldest son, if only to check on Brienne; Qyburn continues to tend to her; Jaime clings to the withering hope that Brienne will survive this ordeal. He has yet to see his brother in the fortnight since the trial by combat, and Tyrion has yet to see him of his own accord. _Perhaps it is better this way_ , Jaime muses to himself, his thoughts suddenly turning dark. _For if I ever see him again, I may very well do something I'll regret..._

 

“My lord, if it pleases you, I would like to examine Lady Brienne further.”

 

“What kind of examination?” asks Jaime.

 

“An examination of her abdomen, my lord. There simply is no way to gauge possible viability with sight alone. She must be examined internally.”

 

Jaime is beside himself, his head shaking with adamant protest. “Absolutely not. I won't have you force her to bear the burden of yet another reminder of this atrocity, just so you can tell me my child is dead!”

 

Qyburn attempts to reason with him. “But that's just it, my lord. While the infection has lost some of its virulence, the fact remains that it is still present and we must investigate the cause, lest we allow it to consume her and then she truly is lost.”

 

Jaime begins to pace in silence like a lion in a cage. He nibbles on the inside of his mouth, wrought with nervous fury. “I can't let you do that.”

 

Qyburn looks upon him, quizzical. “My lord?”

 

“I do not recall stammering,”

 

The maester relents, only to move into a subtle bow. “As you wish, my lord. If it pleases you, at least allow me to ascertain the extent of the healing process.”

 

“You do that, but anything more and I'll have your miserable head.” Jaime warns. “Now if you'll excuse me, I need a moment. I'll be right outside the door.”

 

“Very good, my lord. Perhaps the fresh air will help you to clear your head.”

 

Already furious, Jaime is sent spiraling further upon his opening of the door to find Tyrion standing at the door being held in place by the guardsmen, his sunken blue eyes filled with remorse and outrage. “I just came to apologize to my brother, you idiots!”

 

Jaime orders the guards to stand down. “Let him go.”

 

“But my lord,” one of the guards begins to protest, only to be forcibly cut off by Jaime. “That's an order! Disperse!”

 

Once they're alone in the corridor, Tyrion breathes a sigh of relief as he straightens himself out. “Thank you, Jaime.”

 

Jaime whirls around on his heel to face his diminutive brother, eyes wild. “Shut your mouth!” he roars, spittle flying from his mouth. “You're the last fucking person I want to see right now, which should tell you a lot considering I loathe father and Cersei just as much!”

 

Tyrion is taken aback by the fury radiating from his brother, usually always so full of cool confidence and calm. “Seven Hells, what has gotten into you, Jaime?”

 

Jaime stares at him, grievously offended. “Are you serious? Maybe I truly have gone mad, because you did not just ask me that! You act like a fucking ingrate, father pretends to care about Brienne, our sister covertly attempts to murder, yet _I'm_ deemed the mad one simply because I am in love with Brienne and cannot bear the thought of losing her?!”

 

“It's serious?” asks Tyrion.

 

“Save it!” roars Jaime. “You've got one bloody minute to tell me why you think your life is more important than the two that are now at risk because of you and that cunt sister of mine”

 

The dwarf's lips part, aghast. “So it...Cersei was telling the truth, then – Lady Brienne is with child. Your child.”

 

Jaime cuts him off. “I asked you a question.”

 

Tyrion raises his hands in a show of peace, voice calm as he attempts to extend an olive branch to his livid brother. “You know I did not wish for any of this to happen, Jaime. Had I known she was pregnant, I would have advised her against acting as my champion. Please, you must believe me.”

 

The dwarf's eyes grow big at the sight of his brother slowly unsheathing the dagger attached to his hip. “I don't know what I believe anymore... But I do know there's a higher than likely chance my first trueborn child is dead and my lady-wife clings to within an inch of her life because of you. _That much_ I know.”

 

“Me? What about Cersei? Did I not just hear you mention us both in the same breath?” asks Tyrion, aghast.

 

“Her actions were merely a side-effect of your stupidity,” Jaime replies. “This is all on you! You had one fucking job – plead guilty! But no! And now my family suffers because of _your_ actions!”

 

The look on his face catches Tyrion off guard, as he cannot ever recall a time before when Jaime looked so upset and rampant. So fierce, almost as if he were the very embodiment of the lion on which House Lannister was based. Tyrion takes a step back, shaken to his very core as Jaime holds the dagger directly betwixt his eyes. “J-Jaime...please. Don't...don't do this. This isn't you. I know this isn't you. Please!” he pleads, on the verge of tears.

 

Jaime clutches the hilt with all his strength, his every muscle tensing with nervous anticipation...and restraint. Restraint upon seeing his baby brother looking upon him with the same big, fearful, sad eyes he used to have as a child whenever having escaped Cersei's torment. As he glares at his brother, Jaime hears the scared voice of a child inside his head: _'Big brother, sister took my toy away from me! Tell her to give it back!'_ Little Tyrion, his big eyes filled with tears and nose dripping with snot, looking as if his puppy had just died. Then his face would light up again after Jaime reclaimed his brother's stolen toy and promised to sneak him some sweets at night; Jaime hears little Tyrion's voice once more: _'You're the best big brother ever!'_

 

And the dagger falls limp from Jaime's hand to the floor. Jaime averts his gaze elsewhere. “Get out of my sight. Go...before I change my mind.”

 

Tyrion briefly swallows hard before skittering out of the hall without so much as another word.

 

Jaime falls to his knees, overcome by the aftermath of having almost killed his own brother. He retches forward, suddenly sick, his groans echoing through the halls. He wipes his mouth the the back of his hand, panting with terror as his heart pounds fast and fierce against his chest. His eyes fall closed, mouth parted and gulping for air. _Is this it then? Robbing me of my sword hand – my purpose -- wasn't enough for you vengeful bastards so now you feel you must punish me more by robbing me of the only truth and happiness I've ever known?_ Jaime vents to himself, to the old gods and the new. _By turning me back into a monster like the rest of this wretched family? So be it. Punish me for slaying my king, fucking my sister and fathering her children, for crippling the Stark boy! But do not punish my wife and the mother of my child for fighting against injustice!_

 

A sudden noise on the other side of the door forces Jaime's eyes wide open. His pulse quickens upon catching sight of the door opening and Qyburn peeking out from behind. “My lord, I bring news of Lady Brienne. Please, come in.”

 

Jaime rushes inside, fearing the worst.

 


	16. Winds of Change

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime and Brienne depart King's Landing and begin their journey to Casterly Rock where Jaime is set to become the new Lord Paramount of the Westerlands and Lord of Casterly Rock. But fate, however, seems to have other ideas...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, my lovelies, we've reached the end of the first adventure featuring Westeros most famous dorks in love. It's been on hell of a ride and one I cannot thank everyone enough for having joined me on. Seriously, the response to this has been overwhelmingly positive and never had I dreamed people would gravitate to it as much as they have. Because of the enormous outpouring of support, this fic is now turning in to a series. And I can't wait to share what I have in store with you guys. I hope you'll join me for that ride, and the rides to come! 
> 
> It's been a blast guys, thank you so much! <3

Tyrion Lannister looks upon his brother with anguish and regret as the latter works to prepare a horse for the long journey ahead. “I wish you would reconsider this decision, Jaime. This...vendetta, this scorn you bear towards me for what happened to Lady Brienne, it is not beneficial to us as brothers, nor to our House, but to those who may rise against us. You and I know that this war is far from over.”

 

Jaime moves past his brother, a slight grunt of effort escaping him as he pulls the saddle's back cinch tight and checks it for the horse's comfort and signs of instability. “What's happening across the Seven Kingdoms right now has no bearing on us; perhaps you should have thought about that before you decided to reject my help and make an ass out of yourself.”

 

Tyrion sighs, discouraged. “It has been a month since the incident, Jaime. When are you going to move past it and stop treating me like the most vile halfman who ever lived, and start treating me like you did before...before becoming blinded by love?” Tyrion, seeing the look of hurt and quiet anger upon his brother's face, quickly tries to smooth things over. “Forgive me, I did not mean it that way. I truly am happy for you, brother. Seeing you happy and having forged a new identity for yourself after having lost your hand warms my heart.”

 

“If that's the case, you have a queer way of showing it.”

 

Tyrion draws a heavy sigh. “And we're back to that again. Perhaps we should change House Lannister's unofficial motto from, _'A Lannister always pays his debts'_ to, _'A Lannister always pays his debts and holds grudges.'_ ”

 

Jaime stops what he's doing, hairs bristling on the back of his neck as he spins around to confront his brother. “So it's all one big joke to you, is that it? Brienne's suffering, my suffering, the grief of having lost our child, it's all one big fucking joke to you?”

 

The brothers are busy staring each other down when Jaime suddenly catches sight of a pair of newcomers out of his peripheral and breaks his tense focus from Tyrion to the slowly approaching pair.

 

Jaime frowns. “Seven Hells, will you just let the odd little man help you, my infinitely stubborn wench?”

 

Brienne, with Qyburn tagging alongside and attempting to support her. The vast contradiction between them – tall to short, young to old -- brings a warm smile to Jaime's face in spite of the lingering tension between him and Tyrion. “I think it is safe to say the lady is fit to travel, my lord, as she's been resisting my assistance the whole way here.”

 

Jaime laughs, the crow's feet around his eyes wrinkling in response before he resumes preparing Brienne's horse.

 

“Lord Tyrion.” Brienne greets once she arrives. “Seven blessings to you this morning.”

 

Tyrion moves into a light bow before taking hold of Brienne's pale hand and kissing it. “Thank you, my lady. And to you and my brother as well. I am forever in your debt. However, I would like to apologize for everything you and my brother have had to endure this past month. I am...truly sorry for your loss.”

 

A brief sliver of grief flashes across her face, her chin twitching before she steels herself, gulping back the pain. “...Do not be sorry, my lord. You needed a champion. I could not just sit idly by and allow such grave injustice to happen. You could not have predicted that the Crown would champion such a monster.”

 

Tyrion, taken aback by Brienne's gentle heart, merely smiles up at her.

 

“Jaime, you know you didn't have to do this,” Brienne says of her horse before giving its dark mane a hearty scratch.

 

“Perhaps. But have you already forgotten the fact that you nearly died? It's been a month and you are only just beginning to recover, so it pains me to tell you that I will be on you like stink on shit until further notice.” Jaime grins, having finished readying Brienne's horse.

 

Brienne blushes, pulling back when Jaime moves in to take her gently into his arms, but relents after seeing the look of hurt on his face. “You're insufferable, do you know that?” she snorts.

 

“All for you, you great beast of a woman,” grins Jaime before parting from her to saddle his own horse.

 

As Brienne prepares to mount, Tyrion hastily offers her assistance, cupping his hands together. “Please, let me help you, my lady.”

 

“That's quite all right, my lord. I'll never regain my full strength if I rely on others.” Brienne replies before attempting to lift herself atop the horse. Her first attempt fails, leaving her sore and lightheaded; she curses to herself, embarrassed by her weakness in front of the others, only to try again. She grunts with exertion, determined to a complete the seemingly menial task herself. Eventually, she pants with exhaustion from atop her mount, but looks proud of herself nevertheless.

 

Jaime, having saddled and mounted his horse, is quick to chastise his stubborn partner. “You're also never going to properly heal if you insist on being so pig-headed.”

 

Brienne adjusts herself for comfort, Oathkeeper wiggling at her hip. Rather than engage with Jaime, however, she chooses to address Qyburn instead. “I owe you my life, Maester Qyburn.”

 

Qyburn bows. “Such high praise is not required, Lady Brienne. I was but merely answering the plea of the maligned.”

 

Brienne acknowledges the maester with a slight nod before Jaime announces their departure. “Ready, my lady?”

 

She nods before gently willing her mount forward down the dirt path.

 

“Jaime!” calls Tyrion, forcing the pair to cease. Jaime looks over his shoulder. “Be well, my brother. I hope you will find it in your heart to forgive me for all the pain I've caused. Maybe not today, nor tomorrow, or a fortnight from now, but someday. That you think about it is all I ask.”

 

“...You take care of yourself, baby brother,” Jaime eventually replies before looking forward once more.

 

Tyrion watches as Jaime and Brienne trod off down the skinny dirt path lined with trees until their backs are nothing more than speckles of color against the brilliant blue sky and he has found himself alone with his thoughts, Qyburn having returned to his chambers. A heavy sigh filled with regret and a strange pride parts his lips. _Though I was able to keep my life, it came at the cost of losing my brother, perhaps forever, and the bond we've shared our whole lives...And yet I cannot help but to feel myself proud of him and what he has now become, away from Cersei's poison. He will make a fine lord, and an even finer husband and father..._

 

Tyrion turns to face the gaping maw of the west gate into King's Landing, the Red Keep stabbing high into the heavens in the distance. _And perhaps -- not today nor tomorrow, but someday – there will come a time when I am able to tell him as such..._ He begins his long trek back to the Red Keep. 

 

_Until then, know that I wish you nothing but safe travels and I love you, big brother..._

 

* * *

 

The soft thump of hoofbeats is the only sound for miles across the grassy plain. Jaime and Brienne ride side by side, leisurely-like and in no particular hurry to see how much distance they can cover before twilight descends and they are forced to stop and make camp for the night. Jaime can't help but smile, reveling in the sight of Brienne, her pale skin and hair glowing in the sunlight and the soft breeze combing its ghostly fingers through her short locks as she takes in the fresh air and sights, looking a bit tired, but oddly at peace. The moment they breached the plain, he'd noticed a profound lift in her spirit, as if King's Landing had been a poisoned shackle around her neck sapping her of her vigorous spirit. It was an observation Jaime considered to be not far from the truth – it truly had become a virulent cesspool of misery, treachery and deceit. But perhaps it had always been a cesspool and he'd been too blind to notice, having been wrapped tightly around Cersei's finger for so many years?

 

Whatever the case had been, or was now, the only thing that mattered to Jaime was getting Brienne as far away from the capital as possible.

 

Jaime glances down briefly at the blade sheathed at his left hip, still nameless, before gazing over at Brienne lost in thought. “Wench?”

 

No answer. “Brienne? Are you well? You look a bit tired, perhaps we should rest for awhile?”

 

Brienne shakes her head of the cobwebs. “Hm? Did you just ask me something?” she asks, sounding rather distant.

 

Jaime wills his horse to a stop, suddenly concerned. “You just answered my question. We'll stop here for a spell and you can rest.”

 

Brienne watches as he dismounts. “What? No, Jaime, we don't have to. I'm all right, really. I was just having a moment.”

 

But Jaime has already began to unpack his travel supplies, much to Brienne's annoyance. “Are you going to be like this for the entire journey to Casterly Rock?”

 

“Perhaps,” Jaime replies whilst awkwardly hobbling his horse to a nearby tree. “I can't promise I won't, if that's what you're wondering.”

 

Brienne rolls her eyes with a sigh before beginning her dismount, only to bristle at the sudden feeling of Jaime's hand and stump upon her back in support. “Thank you, but I think I can dismount a horse on my own, Jaime.”

 

“I've no doubt you can, wife. But until then, I'm helping you.”

 

Brienne turns to face him, one pale brow cocked. “Did you just call me 'wife'? We aren't even married yet!”

 

Jaime simply grins. “I know that, wench. I am merely practicing. Just like I must get used to referring to you as Brienne Lannister. Or do you prefer Brienne Lannister of Tarth?”

 

Brienne wears a look of passive annoyance on her face. “I will worry about that when the time comes, dear Jaime.” she replies before shaking her head, suddenly weary and light-headed.

 

“Brienne?” asks Jaime, taking hold of her hand in concern. “Here, perhaps you'd better sit and rest. You're looking even more pale than usual.” He leads her to rest upon a gentle mound of grass where he's laid out a simple blanket and portions of dried fruit and meat. “Here, perhaps you need a bit of food in your belly,” he suggests, handing her a small chunk of meat and some fruit before taking some for himself.

 

But Brienne merely waves the food away, her look souring. “No, thank you. I've not much of an appetite.”

 

Jaime watches her move into a great stretch of her arms and neck, joints popping with audible cracks and thwumps in the still of the plain. There had been a time shortly after she'd awakened when Jaime had watched her belly with incessant interest for the slightest sign of outward growth – some sign that told him that Qyburn had been wrong about the fate of their cub, that it was still alive and growing with the passing of every day – but when no such sign came, he'd eventually resigned himself to the fact that Qyburn had been right about the baby all along and forced himself to move on in spite of his grief.

 

He frowns at the thought of Qyburn who, while not a lech like Pycelle, still made him plenty uncomfortable given his penchant for experimenting on dead or dying bodies. “Brienne, I'm sorry,” he blurts out suddenly.

 

Brienne lay on the blanket, arms crossed behind her head. “What are you talking about?”

 

Jaime settles down to join her. “Just before you came out of your coma, or whatever the hell it was, I left you alone with Qyburn, knowing full well he's one of Cersei's sycophants and has a history of experimenting on the dead or dying. I never should have left you alone with him. Never.” He leans in to kiss her full lips. “Do you remember him hurting you or anything?”

 

Brienne, still weary, attempts to reassure him with a smile but its feeble at best. She's simply too tired, feeling as if what strength she had has suddenly been snapped in half. “No...but, I'm starting to wonder if we were perhaps too eager and left the capital too soon, Jaime. I do not feel like myself...”

 

“Bloody Hells,” Jaime replies, distraught, as he witnesses Brienne's eyes fall closed. Finding her unresponsive, Jaime grits his teeth knowing he must attempt to hoist her up by himself largely behind the strength of his left arm alone. But her body is thick with strength and far larger than the average woman, forcing Jaime to become creative and achieve his task with ingenuity rather than brute strength. Eventually, however, he's able to hoist her up and over the saddle of her horse; as awkward as it will look for him to be riding upright while his companion lay slumped across her horse, Jaime is far too concerned about finding the closest town on the Gold Road and getting Brienne to a maester to be worried about appearances.

 

“C'mon boy! Hyah!”

 

* * *

 

Hours later, Brienne awakens, her eyes heavy and crusted over with sleep, to the blurry silhouette of Jaime at her side, the rich scents of hearth and roasting stew filling her nostrils, and an odd sense of fullness in her abdomen. “J-Jaime? Where...?” she croaks, throat painfully parched.

 

“Wench,” greets Jaime, sounding relieved before pouring her some water. “Here, drink this.”

 

For a moment, Brienne thinks herself mad with fever, for he also sounds oddly happy, as if a great weight has been lifted from his shoulders. “You...sound odd, Jaime. Even for you.” Brienne quips before downing the water in two big gulps and attempting to sit up. “Where are we?”

 

Jaime is quick to assist her, hand supporting her muscled back while his stump rests against her shoulder. “Do I? And if you must know, we're in the village of Rivermouth.”

 

Brienne rests one palm against her forehead and the other against her sore midsection. “What happened? I feel like I've been in a fight.”

 

Jaime settles down next to her, taking her hand from her forehead and holding it tight. “You lost consciousness; I stopped at the first town I came across, namely this one, and not a moment too soon. According to the town's local woods witch who took you in, you'd nearly succumbed to what she believed was an overdose of Essence of Nightshade, but she was able to mitigate it with a slew of herbs I can't for the bloody life of me recall at the moment.”

 

Brienne's eyes burst open with shock, only to quickly narrow with anger. “That nasty little shit...”

 

Brienne's coarse tongue catches Jaime off guard for a moment before it suddenly dawns on him as to who she was referring to, and he, too, begins to seethe.

 

“Qyburn.” they exclaim in unison.

 

“Before we came to join you, he had me drink what he told me was _'a little something to help the inevitable pain'_ I'd have while sitting upright on my horse for several hours... I'd started to feel strange right before we left the capital, but I didn't think it was anything to be concerned about. But it just kept getting worse... Is that why my stomach hurts, because I've nothing to dampen the pain?”

 

_I'll slice him in two should our paths ever cross again, and then give that hateful woman my regards,_ Jaime vows within his mind before refocusing his attention once more on Brienne. The vengeance could wait, for he has something far more pressing to discuss with her at the moment. “There's something else, Brienne. The Essence of Nightshade was tainted...” Jaime begins, noticing his grip around Brienne's big pale paw has tightened. His gaze never leaves hers. “Tainted with Moon Tea.” 

 

Brienne's lips part, her face flabbergasted. She'd heard of Moon Tea from her septa as a youth. It was a common, easy to make form of contraception and could also be used to abort a child in early pregnancy... She can feel her chin start to quiver as the telltale burn of tears scorches her big blue eyes. “But that would mean...”

 

Jaime's arms encircle her, holding her as close as he possibly can, his left hand finding the back of her pale blonde head, eyes closing. “It appears that way, yes.” he whispers against her ear before a gentle smile, full of pride, brings a soft curve to his lips. “...But he failed.”

 

Brienne quickly comes from resting against his shoulder, her cheeks red and stained with fallen tears. She stammers over her words, overcome by the sudden news. “W-what?” You mean...?”

 

The smile on Jaime's face spreads, becoming more firm. He reaches to palm her belly hidden behind the simple sheets. “If our travels together haven't already proven so, Brienne, we Lannisters are rather hard to kill. And given that Cersei is one by birth, you would think she'd be well aware of this... But she is no where near as clever as she thinks she is.” Brienne's hand comes to join his. “Our cub lives, Brienne...” he smiles before lovingly caressing her belly.

 

Brienne melts into Jaime's touch, and so too does her anger, loss and heartache like the first sun of spring upon snow. She lunges to take Jaime into her arms. “Gods, Jaime! Thank the Seven, it lives!” she exclaims behind happy tears. “Our child lives!”

 

“With that in mind, there's been an unexpected change in our original plan,” Jaime announces.

 

Brienne stares at him. “What kind of change?”

 

A decidedly impish grin adorns Jaime's face. “Well, as soon as the woods witch confirmed all was well with you and the baby, I arranged to have a raven sent to King's Landing for my father. We are no longer going to Lannisport and Casterly Rock. At least, not for the next six months or so...” 

 

Brienne shakes her head in immediate protest. “We are  _not_ going back to King's Landing, Jaime! You'll have to bound me and drag me there, kicking and screaming!” 

 

Jaime reaches to cup her discolored cheek, his gaze tender in spite of the glint of jest behind it. “I will assume that and your earlier – but well deserved – jab at that sunken cunt Qyburn was just your hormones talking, my wench. But we aren't going back to that shithole. Our destination lies on the Southeastern coast.”

 

“Y-you're merely jesting...” Brienne replies once she's deciphered Jaime's coy hint. “You know how much I hate it when you do that.”

 

“Except I'm not,” Jaime replies. “I swear it, by the old gods and the new – we're heading for Tarth, my lady.”

 

Tarth. The Sapphire Isle. Home. Brienne hadn't set foot upon her shores in several years, having left Evenfall Hall to serve House Baratheon of Storm's End shortly after Renly declared himself king near the start of the war. It was almost strange for her to think that that had nearly been two years ago, as everything – from her first night spent at Renly's camp to watching her king slain before her very eyes – still felt fresh and vivid within her mind. There had been a time when Brienne thought she'd never see her father nor the beauty of Tarth ever again after having sworn fealty to King Renly and pledging herself to his service. But between the news of her child surviving and now the news that she would be returning home, with Jaime Lannister at her side no less, it seemed abundantly clear to Brienne that fate had other ideas.

 

Brienne flings herself toward Jaime, her arms drawing around his neck and shoulders. “I do not deserve you, Jaime. But I love you all the same.”

 

Jaime's eyes fall closed. “No. I do not deserve  _you_ , Brienne. That is truth. I was horrible to you in the beginning, yet you still somehow were able to show me a compassion denied to me for seventeen years; all the people saw was The Kingslayer, Oathbreaker, A Man Without Honor. All you saw was Ser Jaime Lannister, and from that moment onward, I began to question what I'd done to deserve your respect.” 

 

Brienne looks at him, a soft smile on her face. “Because I knew there had always been honor in you, Jaime. Others just refused to see it because it's easier to just brand a person and be done with it. All you needed was somebody to see it. Just like you did with me.”

 

“But I remember mocking you by saying you looked much uglier in daylight, for fuck's sake. How is that the same?”

 

Brienne is candid in her response. "Because I am hardly conventional, Jaime. You've seen the way people treat me. But you were able to see past the ugly and treat me like a human being rather than a monster. After I'd gotten the better of you during our tussle on the bridge, that is."

 

“You did, yes. But I'd been imprisoned for a bloody year before our journey and was weakened _and_ shackled, mind you.” Jaime argues. 

 

Brienne gawks at him as if he's suddenly grown a second head on his shoulders. “Really? Are you  _really_ going down that route with me?” 

 

“I'm merely stating facts, my wench.” grins Jaime in jest. "And be that as it may, I suppose I can see your point about us being on in the same... I still think had I been in better health and unleashed that I would have won, though..."

 

“Anyway,” Brienne interjects, not willing to give Jaime an inch in their debate. “Are you certain Lord Tywin will be receptive of these new plans?”

 

“He must. As one so obsessed with family, he's no choice but to accept that I am just doing what I feel is best for _my_ family. And the truth of the matter is, the moment you told me you were with my child, I had no intention of going to Casterly Rock, and every intention to sail to Tarth. Besides that, I think it is important that your father and I meet sooner rather than later.”

 

Brienne nods with knowing and wills her hand to rest against her stomach. She gazes upon it, pensive. “I say this with no disrespect to your House Seat, Jaime, but I truly would feel more at ease in the months to come if I were with you and Father on Tarth rather than simply you and I at Casterly Rock... Did you send a raven to Tarth as well?”

 

Jaime nods. “The night before the trial by combat. A bird flew back within days. I'd wanted everything to be a surprise but...things became rather complicated.”

 

“What did my father say?”

 

Jaime scratches the back of his head, suddenly shy. “Off the top of my head? He said while he wished that someone far more proper had won your hand, he bears no misgivings so long as you're happy and well-cared for. He also sounded like he was rather excited to become a grandfather.”

 

Brienne cups Jaime's face. “...I've never been so happy. And it's all because of you, Jaime.” She leans in to claim his lips. “When do we depart?”

 

Jaime goes back in for more, purring against her mouth and savoring her taste. “Provided you are well enough to do so, we'll leave here at first light. Until then, however, we'll settle here for the night. I know it annoys you to have to do so, but I want you to rest during that time.”

 

Brienne lays down, sighing with an odd sense of contentment once her head settles upon the pillow. “As odd at it may sound coming from me, I'm going to have to agree with you – a fair bit of rest sounds good at the moment. Besides...” Her big palm finds her midsection once more, her face brimming with warm emotion. “It looks like I'm going to need every ounce of it I can muster to make sure this little one grows fat with health and strength...”

 

Jaime falls to join alongside her on the bed. He chuckles, enamored by this side of Brienne he's never seen before. True, unbridled happiness. He revels in the happiness and hope of the moment alongside her, knowing they are both long overdue for a moment such as this and what it has taken to reach it. A rocky start to their partnership during their trip through the Riverlands; capture and subsequent rape and maiming by Locke; the tribulations at Harrenhal and later, at King's Landing. But rather than drive them apart, each experience only served to strengthen their bond until it gave birth to another, nigh unbreakable in its construction akin to that of Valyrian steel.

 

And may the Mother have mercy on whomever foolish enough to attempt to ever tear their growing pride asunder...

 

From this day, till the last of their days.

 

...For the lions still have claws.

 

 


End file.
